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UNDER THE 
KEROSENE LAMP 

Being The 

Prairie Pioneer's 

Primer 

BY 
HARRY P. SIMMONS 
With Photographs 
By The Author. 



S Published by 

THE MECHANICAL ARTS Co. 
j« YORK NEBRASKA. 

) 1922 



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Copyright, 1922 

By 

Harry P. Simmons. 



Mfl'i 15 72 



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To the memory of one Keeper 
of the Lamps, this little book is 
dedicated by her son. 



PAX BEATA 

I've closed my door and am all alone. 
Here in my room, all fragrant with my 
better self. 
Here are my pictures that have waited long for 

me; 
Erasmus with his studious calm; 
My playing children and my laughing girl. 
My quaint stiff angels and my meek St. John — 
They greet me as I come to them for rest. 
Upon the shelves my other friends 
Are waiting, too, for me; my friends 
That take me far beyond my tiny room 
And make its sunny space 
A gleaming entrance into other lands. 
There is my bed, where all the night 
My body lies asleep 
And leaves my soul quite free 
To wander with the winds. 
There is my window where 1 say my prayers 
And look straight out upon the solid hills 




And listen for the rustle of the angels' wings. 

My room, all sweet with flowers I love 

That grov>/ for me because I love them; 

All fragrant, too, v»'ith ghosts o^ flowers 

That bloomed and drooped with me; 

My room so still and quiet, yet astir 

With all the souls of those that love and trust 

me, 
Outside the strife and struggle and the strain; 
In here there's peace, and quietude and 

strength — 
I've closed my door and I am all alone. 



SAINT LOUIS POST-DISPATCH 



M^. 



CONTENTS 



IV 

V 

VI 

VII 

VIII 

IX 

X 

XI 

XII 

XIII 

XIV 



THE FIRST DAY OF DREAMS ... I 

THE LAMP ITSELF 17 

THE KEEPER OF THE LAMPS ' . . 29 

THE COURTHOUSE SQUARE . . , 49 

EVENING PEACE IN THE FIELDS . 71 

FOR COURTING PURPOSES ONLY , 79 

BASIN DAYS 99 

SIGHTS &■ SOUNDS of YESTERDAY .III 



OUR STREAMS AND VALLEYS 
OLD DAYS IN A PRAIRIE TOWN 
SHEAVES OF WHEAT . . . 
WINDY DAYS AND CALM . . 
ALONG THE FENCE LINES . 
SILENT TRAILS 



131 
145 
169 
179 
193 
209 



tfd^''- 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

Twilight on the Platte. Frontpiece 

Soldier's monument, showing 

Blue valley in the distance . 15 

Above the dam in old days 

at the "Seeley" mill . 38 

A reminder of stereoscopic 

photograph times . 60 

Henry Blank on the road leading 
to the home of his heart's desire 93 

The stackyard, and 

its surroundings . . .120 

Bridge over a Nebraska stream, 

well known to the public . 143 

Thunderheads fading at sunset, 

the stonn danger gone 179 

Section of the abandoned 

Erie and Ohio canal . .211 



T 



he chapters contained herein, are 
not to be considered biographi- 
cal. That class of literature is reserved 
for the great, and those who think they 
are great. Q When the personal appears 
it is to help bring to the reader long- 
gone days and experiences of his or her 
own; since so many things pertaining 
to early life on the prairie were com- 
mon to all of us. (j[ The beaten path, 
has been avoided wherever possible to 
make a detour. While some details 
would fit daily lives in several western 
states, the aim has been to m.ake this a 
Nebraska book. Q It is hoped that the 
illustrations will add to its value as a 
souvenir, or an entertainer for sister's 
beau. Actual photographs direct from 
the negatives, surely increase the cost 
of production. 

H.P.S. 

York, Nebraska. 
April, 1922. 



^ ^ ^ 

THE FIRST DAY OF DREAMS 

About forty years ago at the close of a beauti- 
ful June day, a small boy— future citizen of the 
Nebraska prairies, studied the sky closely with a 
very anxious look. All signs were favorable for 
the morrow to be as perfect as the day just fad- 
ing into twilight. With a little sigh of relief he 
turned from the window and took to his bed a 
full hour earlier than usual; for he must arise 
very early the next morning, doing so willingly 
and eagerly, which would be unusual. 

A boy takes to water just as naturally as any 
duck ever dared to do; but the boy may in time 
outgrow the habit, while the duck keeps pad- 
dling around, even in old age. On the western 
plains of years ago, boys were raised far from 
their native element; and the few fishing excur- 
sions to some little stream— miles away perhaps, 

1 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

were days of riotous joy looked foward to with 
burning eagerness. 

Frequently the boy's holiday combined busi- 
ness and pleasure. Going to mill, was the pri- 
mary object of some of these excursions. Fish- 
ing or other recreations relating to water could 
be indujged in while waiting for the "grist. The 
June trip was more liable to come as a reward 
for faithfulness to farm duties, since little milling 
was done at that time of year. No matter which 
reason allowed the day's outing, the starved soul 
of the prairie boy welcomed it gladly. 

So to the one with small opportunity for youth- 
ful pleasures naturally craved, this drive of a doz- 
en miles or more across the newly settled land was 
an event of the year rivalling the visit of the one- 
ring circus at the county seat. Who, unless he 
has lived the part, can picture that early morning 
ride along the road which curved not an inch in 
all the miles unless the surveyor had made a mis- 
take, or at the county line where the correction 
for curvature of the earth's surface was made— a 
thing too technical for small boys. 

2 



THE FIRST DAY OF DREAMS 

It did seem so strange that others should be 
going about their farm duties as usual that morn- 
ing. But there they were, hitching up their 
teams and going out to plow corn just as if such 
a day at the river had never been theirs to en-, 
joy and revel in. 

The corn rows were like so many bright lines 
of green on the black soil newdy turned by the 
plow, and extending straight acrcss the field to 
such a distance that the eastern farmer would 
not believe it if we told him. The boy formed 
his opinion of the owner of the field by the 
straightness cf the corn rows. If they did not 
sag in the middle, or have any little wobbly 
crooks here and there — the owner was a man of 
ability. But on the contrary, if these rows swerv- 
ed and curved around most anywhere, the boy 
was quite sure of the owner's mental weakness, 
or at least his indecision of character. 

During the last mile of that early morning 
ride, a double bow-knot tied in a corn row would 
not have attracted the lad's attention; for was net 
the river just ahead ? In a few minutes when 

3 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

the crest in the rise of the road was reached, the 
expanse of water above the dam lay flashing in 
the bright sun. 

There — at last — lay the river in its beautiful 
valley cf grasses below; and for miles up or down 
stream the course C3uld be followed by the thick 
fringe of timber which bordered the banks cxse- 
ly — so closely indeed that the sxall stream was 
completely hidden. 

With just a little awe and a slight shiver, the 
urchin viewed the waters above the dam; for he 
had heard of people being drowned there while 
boating or fishing; and — well, he only saw it 
once a year and couldn't feel just as one might 
who lived near and became familiar with the 
spectacle. The Ohio or Mississippi at present 
at any point cf their picturesque valleys, could 
not bring up such a feeling as did the first sight 
of the little Blue, running so slowly and quietly 
through that valley of the prairies. 

And now there is the bridge below the dam — 
almost over-arched with treetops. Such trees ! 
After a year, perhaps, with no sight cf timber 

4 



THE FIRST DAY OF DREAMS 

other than the struggling cottonwoods and box- 
alders, it seemed like the entrance to a veritable 
forest. The sound of water falling over the dam 
and the rumbling of the mill, made complete the 
illusion of a new land of wonder. Even the horses 
were so little accustomed to the ways of advanc- 
ing civilization, that they started over the bridge 
very cautiously, jumping at the sound of their 
own footsteps on the planking. 

At the mi]l stables, the farmer's horses were 
always welcome. But to the boy who WtS in- 
debted to the team for a ride over the prairie road 
that morning, it seemed almost a waste of time 
to be compelled to assist in unhitching the ani- 
mals, before he — the boy, not the team — was 
turned loose for the day, after many warnings 
against falling into that deep water above the 
wonderful dam. 

For the first half hour or so, there wouM be 
a survey in general of things in the neighborhood 
of the mill. Then all finny inhabitants cf the 
stream who happened to be loafing around in the 
vicinity, were given the chance cf their lives to 

5 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

get out and live more quiet and genteel lives in 
the seclusion of the stock tanks. 

For at this time in his career, eating them did 
not appeal to the boy at all. Just to "take them 
home alive," was the sole idea. Those tanks of 
heavy plank staves held togethet with iron bands, 
made aquariums of a high order. Here the cat- 
tle and horses stood long and drank deep when 
the summer south wind blew. But back to the 
particular scene of the day. 

Sitting in the shade cf the mill, where the 
water came out from the wheel-pit — with a wil- 
low pole suitably placed to control a cotton line 
attached thereto, in case the floating cork fasten- 
ed to said line took on a violent bobbing move- 
ment, there was now a fine opportunity to spec- 
ulate on other things pertaining to rivers and wa- 
ters; for at times the catfish and redhorse were 
very negligent as to their duty in biting, so the 
youthful dreamier could let his thoughts wander 
with little danger of interruption. 

But just as all other accidents in life come 
when least expected — there would be a few quick 

6 



THE FIRST DAY OF DREAMS 

bobbings of the cork, then under water it went 
before the boy was able to collect his wits. He 
made a wild pull which had none of the grace of 
a real angler in it. The fish simply cut thru the 
air, and landed far out in the tall weeds or brush; 
and must be hunted like some native of the dry 
land. After one of these hunts for the game on 
the banks, the boy made up his mind to pull in 
a more dignified and self-pcssessed manner the 
next time, but there is no proof that he ever 
made a success of it. 

Perhaps the steady rumble of the mill helped 
the lad's mood for dreaming, as the music of an 
orchestra helps the expression of ideas in a play. 
At any rate it was here by the millrace, with the 
sound of water falling over the dam in a mono- 
tone varying only as the summer breeze rose or 
fell among the treetops — that the boy first really 
dreamed of the world outside; and of the big riv- 
ers which he hoped to see some day. But it was 
a dream that was to last all the boyhood days and 
all the years, until it became a reality. Stream 
worship was instilled for a lifetime. 

7 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

The school geography held about all the printed 
information concerning rivers and other bodies 
of water which was available to the boy at the 
time. However there was another source, an oral 
one,, handed down like the traditions of the 
tribes. His grandfathers and possibly a neighbor 
or two, had come years before from the distant 
lands along the Ohio. To the boy they had told 
tales about steamboats, and of life on the rivers 
and canals. With this connecting link to the 
subject, which, in some way, had become of such 
great interest to him, the imagination was stim- 
ulated to outdo itself. Just then, there was noth- 
ing farther from his thoughts than writing tales 
forty years afterward from that same valley cf the 
Ohio, with whistles of steamboats mellowed by 
distance, helping to bring recollections of this 
long gone fishing day. 

And then — dinnertime. Those things which 
mother had put up that morning tasted extraor- 
dinarily good out under the trees, and with such 
novel surroundings. Possibly a very early break- 
fast helped to create the appetite. 

8 



THE FIRST DAY OF DREAMS 

After dinner, properly chaperoned by some 
older member of the family who could swim — a 
boat-ride was allowed on thrt glorious, sparkling 
l?.ke above the dam. 

To the east — at the end of the dam, and fram- 
ed in a bower cf trees— the mill stood majestic 
and imposing. The rumble of its machinery, 
came floating over the water, and njade the three 
hundred and sixty-four days cf the year spent on 
dry land seem hazy and indistinct. 

But since there are two periods cf joy in a 
picnic excursion — the joy of arriving on the 
scene, and the joy of starting hoir.e — the second 
period came in due time. When the afternoon 
had passed well along and the sun swung down 
low in the west, and the south wind had become 
a mere whisper, the novelty uf the day had be- 
gun to wane. 

Things were packed together in the wagon for 
the journey homeward. The horses start out ea- 
gerly, knowing well their destination. Along 
the way, those who had so serenely staid at home 
to plow corn were coming in from their day's 

9 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

work, with no apparent concern for the fun they 
had missed at the river. Perhaps they go on 
Sunday. What sinners ! 

That night, as the boy went the round of his 
chores, he thought of the stream he had visited 
and wondered how h looked in the moonlight. 
When he took to his pillow — tired by the ex- 
citement and exertion of the trip — to his sleepy 
brain came the thought of the water falling over 
the dam. It lulled him promptly to sleep. And 
his dreams were all happy ones; for in youth 
those of the future, relate only to success and 
brilliant achievement. 

ftaf' &si^ ^oi' >^3^ &ai' r-iiSy ^H' J^si' Aa^ 

By means of the above row of clover blossoms 
we bridge a space of forty years. Again the mill 
and the dam, in the golden light of an evening in 
late October, instead of June. An Indian sum- 
mer haze lies over the peaceful valley of the Blue. 
The yellow blaze of autumn color is on the trees 
along the stream, and the leaves are drifting down 
as they have done for forty autumns since that 

10 



THE FIRST DAY OF DREAMS 

first day of dreams. It is appropriate that the 
day has been one of mellow calm which the old 
settlers knew and learned to love so well. For 
this golden light of late afternoon softens the out- 
liaes of a picture that brings a pang to the heart. 

Gone is the broad expanse cf back water above 
the dam. The rumble of wheels, and rush of 
escaping water is stilled, forever, probably. The 
Blue, back in its original channel, flows slowly 
and silently thru an opening in the dam made by 
a flood a few years ago. 

The Seeley mill — that Mecca for numbers of 
youthful stream worshippers so long ago — stands 
waiting, just waiting. Time- weathered but erect, 
it speaks in its own way to those who knew it 
away back in the early seventies. 

Broken window lights, faded paint, a jumble 
of the old time machinery yet lying inside; but 
to the ones who rode behind a team up to the 
doorway, away back in the prairie days, it is 
hard to dispel the illusion that the ghostly form 
of the miller in his flour-covered suit and cap, 
will not soon appear at the door. 

11 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

Yes, it is autumn with the mill as well as 
the year; and for this visii: tie falling leaves are 
more appropriate than would be the murmuring 
leaves cf June, forty years ago. 

The mill and its surroundings have reached 
the true stage of picturesqueness. Mills at a sim- 
ilar tim.e in their careers, have always been a 
subject for the arrist. Therefore, silent rnd de- 
serted mills have adorned walls of homes over a 
great part of the universe. 

But today — brought face to face with a reali- 
zation of how much is gone with the years which 
brought idleness and decay to this, our personal 
mil], it is impressed upon us that a picture to 
a 'orn our own wall, should be somebody ease's 
childhood dreamworld. This one is too near the 
heart. Its all wound round with memories, n^any 
sad ones, just yet. 

To put a picture cf it on our wall now, would 
be too much like putting up one cf the family 
plot in the ce.netery. It may be different after 
the shock of first sight wears away. It might 
even come to be that a series cf pictures, show- 

12 



THE FIRST DAY OF DREAMS 

ing the present day mill and its surroundings, 
would produce a pleasant mental pastime. For 
dreams cf the past, good and sweet, might come 
from studying the views; just as wonderful ones 
of the future came fron the rumble of the whsel 
and rush of water in boyhood. 

During recent years, while living in the Ohio 
and Mississippi valleys, constant acquaintance 
with those mighty rivers brought thoughts of 
this beautiful little valley of old. There was the 
idea, with pleasant anticipation, of making a 
pilgrimage to it. But change in physical appear- 
ance of the locality, had n3t been considered in 
the plans. To sit here new in this soft October 
twilight, and try to unroll the scroll of years dack 
to the first day cf dreams — the task would re- 
quire many such twilights, with some June 
dawns and sunsets added. 

You — reader — if your days go a long way back 
in this prairie state of straight and distant hori- 
zons, with unbroken domes of sky overhead, give 
sympathy and take the case home to yourself. 
You have a mill, or some similar thing in your 

13 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

memories of youth. Let us hope that you are 
not one of the unfortunate city-born, whose ear- 
ly recollections are those of a back yard play 
ground, with a clattering, noisy street in front. 
You may retort that you had fine parks. True, 
but "Keep Off The Grass." met you at every turn, 
and all things provided by the park authorities 
were so very patent and formal. You had to play 
just so, or sit and twirl your thumbs; for the 
park policeman was on watch for mischievous 
and rebellious ones. 

Nebraska has many beautiful spots which 
cities in other states would be glad to have in 
their park systems; if it were possible. In the 
region of the old Seeley mil], York county has a 
place of which it may well take pride. 

The writer speaks now — not as a small boy to 
whom some simple thing might appear as one of 
the seven wonders — but as a man familiar with 
many famed places of nature in our United States. 
If only height of mountain or depth of canon is 
the measure of a scene out of doors, it can not 
satisfy; but to those who have a practical vision, 

14 





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THE FIRST DAY OF DREAMS 

the fertility of the slopes along our little valleys 
is taken into account. 

The Palisades of the Hudson are grand but 
worthless. Prairie scenes have their peculiar type 
of beauty, a practical one, which must be under- 
stood to be appreciated. 

All parks have their custodians, and our little 
one on the Blue has its own — the statue of the 
soldier of far away '61. In the cemetery near 
Lushton, standing on the north slope of the val- 
ley, this life-size figure is a most impressive one. 
Out in the open country, its situation reminds 
one of French's justly famed historical statue, 
The Minute Man, at Concord. 

To anyone who stops and considers its signifi- 
cance, our statue will appeal as a most fitting 
thing. A great number of the county's pioneers 
were veterans of the Civil war; coming soon after 
its close to replenish their fortunes on these 
prairies, where homesteads anb cheap lands were 
open to settlement. 

Memorial day in those times was fitting to its 
name, not having degenerated into a National 

15 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

holiday for racing and general sports. "The sound 
of marching men," was a very real thing on that 
May day, when the prairie was tingeing with 
its new green. 

This body of farmers, with comrades from 
the small towns, made the leading feature of the 
services. The small boys and girls looked on in 
awe, as well they might; for those fathers and 
neighbors had been, "Minute Men, " of a great 
struggle now fast being forgotton. But over the 
valley tonight, as the western sky's color fades 
into darkness, it is very fitting that this statue 
stands gaurd. The old soldier played a great part 
in our state's settlement. 



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16 



II 

THE LAMP ITSELF 

On a busy retail street of this Ohio valley city, 
is a large store where a fine display of gas and 
electric lighting fixtures fill the windows. Inside, 
on handsome library tables, are lamps, veritable 
masterpieces of intricate design and workman- 
ship. It is all palatial in effect, and the salesroom 
looks like a fanciful forest of glowing color. 

Along the residence streets after dark is win- 
dow after window thru which can be seen rooms 
softly lighted in delicate tints by colored shades 
of the table la nps, or more brilliantly lighted by 
clusters suspended fror the ceilings. Since the 
curtains are left undrawn, it is probable those 
inside wish the passer-by to see and admire the 
coziness of the home. Therefore no apology is 
needed for having looked in while passing. 

17 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

Seated in easy rockers under the soft glow of 
tinted lights, it would seem that little was left 
for which to wish in the way of comfort. The 
members of the househDld are beyond reach of 
winter outside. And it would also seem that in 
such an air of cjinfort and coziness, the intellect 
would be stinulated to action, giving a clear un- 
derstanding without undue effort. But it is not 
on record that the world's great achievements 
were inspired by such surroundings, desirable 
as they may be. 

These conditions tend more to mental relax- 
ation than anything else. When we read some 
thing concerning haunts and habits of students 
absorbed in investigations and solving of prob- 
lems, or an author digging a story out of his brain, 
it is almost invariably the case that we find a re- 
tirement to a secluded spot, with the simplest 
surroundings possible. 

For the theme at hand, all modern inventions 
in the matter of lighting, are under a ban.. The 
inspiration is to come from a plain kerosene 
lamp of the variety early boyhood knew. Being 

18 



THE LAMP ITSELF 

glass, a glance will tell how much oil is yet in 
store. Sometimes it forces an early retirement, 
from neglect in filling the bowl. 

The "burner," is of the flat wick pattern, but 
is wider than wicks of lamps which were kept 
in a row on a shelf of the early home on the 
prairie. It gives ample light for the table piled 
with odes and ends of literature. Fastened to 
the burner, is a three-pronged attachment which 
supports a large white porcelain shade. This, 
while leaving the greater part of the room dimly 
lighted, floods the table with a glow sufficient 
for all needs. Sj with the flame adjusted for the 
evening, it is time for remarks more or less gen- 
eral and specific regarding the lamp in years gone 
by, when it came nearer being a luxury. 

Many are yet living who knew the candle when 
it held the honor of being chief illuminator of 
private households, and many public institutions 
besides. Then, the idea of transmitting light by 
wire would have been impatiently scoffed at. 

One does not have to be very far along in years 
to remember having seen his grandmother, or 

19 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

even his mother, making candles. Neither is 
the kerosene lamp ancient history; for modern 
science has not been able to replace it with an 
economical hand lamp, which, for an invest- 
ment of forty cents, will bring cheer into even 
a cabin. "Rushing the can," yes the kerosene 
can is yet being rushed all over the United States 
whenever it is found empty, and a long winter 
evening is at hand. 

With the coming of the kerosene lamp, came 
new possibilities in the way of parlor ornamenta- 
tion. Rebecca of Sunnybrock Farm, realized 
this fact, when she labored selling soap to gain 
a banquet lamp for the destitute family in her 
neighborhood. 

Those round-burner parlor ornaments certain- 
drew heavily on the oil. They were generally 
lighted just before the first guests of the evening 
were billed to arrive, and "blowed" out as soon 
as the last one got out of the yard. 

Hawthorne deplored the coming of closed 
stoves; making the point that loss of open fires 
would result in cheerless homes. The kerosene 

20 



THE LAMP ITSELF 

lamp routed tbe candle, and made up for loss of 
the open fire. It was a flexible source of illumi- 
nation. That is,- it could be turned very low — 
a vast improvement; for nobody had succeebed 
in regulating the candle, which always burned 
full blast down to the socket. 

Limited only by the point where smoke began 
to rise, the lamp's flame could be adapted to se\'- 
eral purposes or conditions. With the wick on 
"high; " the family circle read or followed what- 
ever pastime came to hand, Shifted to interm^e- 
diate, it gave proper light for carrying on jour- 
neys thru darkened and unused roomys. On low, 
it became the beacon to be placed by the win- 
dow for the ones who might be out at night on 
errands across a stretch of prairie. 

When the belated one arrived, even though 
the family might be deep in slumber, there was 
something welcome and satisfying to the heart in 
that low-turned flame of the lamp, dimly outlin- 
ing familiar objects in the room which yet held 
warmth of the evening fire. How pleasant it was 
then to sit for a little while, just idly musing over 

21 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

nothing at all. A relaxation of all the senses — 
so it seemed. As the stove cooled down, the 
metal body gave out sounds of contraction, which, 
gradually lessening in number and force, seemed 
to suggest that the stove was also preparing for 
a night's slumber. This by a sort of mental 
suggestion, helped drive away any tendency to- 
ward insomnia in the one who sat musing. 

Is it possibJe that our homes in those days 
came nearer fitting the true meaning of the 
word ? As one took a glance around the room 
before giving a puff of breath down the chim- 
ney of the lamp, thereby removing the beacon 
window from the landscape of the night, there 
was more of a sense of fellowship with the fur- 
niture than exists at present. Nowadays, pieces 
are matched to fit each room, and all must be 
part of a harmonious whole. There is no partic- 
ular regard for any of it. If occasion required, 
it would all be sold tomorrow, and an entirely 
new outfit put in its place. But our mothers 
and fathers did not do it that way. The old 
bureau was secure in a lifetime job. 

22 



THE LAMP ITSELF 

Since the kerosene lamp became a companion 
in boyhood, there is nothing strange in the fact 
that memories of long gone prairie days are much 
easier recalled under its glow now, though the 
uproar of city streets comes constantly to the ear. 
The daily paper, or anything relating to business 
affairs is taken as matter of fact under the gas or 
electric light; but to get back forty years — well, 
the fact that the electrician failed for some reason 
to connect this room onto the wiring system of 
the house, is now a matter for thankfulness. It 
shall be left just as it is, and given over to the 
influence of the old time lamp. 

In youthful days, we drew the curtains early 
to make it dark enough for lighting of the lamp; 
thus shutting out the dreary winter twilight, and 
thus entering another world of books and dreams, 
bringing forgetfulness of the lonesome night out- 
side. Ours was an orderly community, where 
nearly all retired early. After ten o'clock a lock 
over the little town close by, or the level stretch 
of country roundabout, hardly ever disclosed the 
gleam of a lamp. It was a rare thing to burn 

23 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

midnight oil. The burglar was a negligable 
quantity; thus an all night light was not needed. 
One might, occasionally, sit up until midnight 
on a winter evening, absorbed in a regulation 
old line novel; but if a light was seen burning 
in the snail hours after that time, it was almost 
a sure sign some one was sick; and the neighbors 
wondered what had happened. 

Lamp lighting time in summer, was a different 
matter. In fact, no lamp was used at all if it 
could be avuided. Long days gave light for all 
purposes until so nearly bedtime, that little need 
existed for more. Early rising cf the busy sum- 
mer months automatically squelched any prone- 
ness to late hours. If one had to rise at four- 
thirty, and steal a march en the flies at the 
milking lot— then toil in the sun until the shad- 
ows stretched long over the fields, there seemed 
to be a sort of animal instinct which caused a 
fellow to retire and appreciate the comfort of his 
bed, without inclination or desire for musing un- 
der shade of the lamp. Quick oblivion in slum- 
ber sweet, was the sole ambition. 

24 



THE LAMP ITSELF 

When you went down to the big terminal sta- 
tion a few evenings since, for the start oii an 
all night journey, the maze of intricate electric 
signs was not giving you concern as you passed 
along the streets; and the long rows of arcs ex- 
tending from the train-shed out thru the yards 
was taken as matter of fact. Even the electrically 
lighted cc aches and sleepers was an old story. 

A dazzling headlight swept the track for half 
a mile bey«-.nd the locomotive. But it is an age 
of light; you already knew it, and there was no 
need in getting excited about it on this particular 
night ride. 

At nine o'clock, the signal came on the min- 
ute. The station with its rows of busy tracks, 
glided noiselessly back and away. After clank- 
ing over numerous switches with their red and 
green eyes — how these switch lights awed us 
country boys, when we first came into town af- 
ter night. Soon the train was running past sub- 
urban streets, where arcs at the corners glare 
intensely bright, in contrast with dark spaces 
midway of the blocks. 

25 



UNDER THE ICEROSENE LAMP 

Even the reflection of the city's glare on the 
smoke and cloud above was soon lost to view, 
as the train sped thru the silence of a country 
night. The dazzHng headlight gave an unearth- 
ly halo to the track ahead, making the telegraph 
poles stand like a spectral line of sentinels. By 
contrast, kerosene lamps cf the farmhouses look 
yellow and feeble. 

Then came scattered lights where city and 
country meet, looking like shining stars in the 
inky blackness which blenkets the world beyond 
the outskirts. You had reached the place where 
a light hcS individuality; where it becom.es a 
personal friend. 

Soon they wink out. Then in the hour before 
dawn, they come ag^in end fade with lighting 
of the eastern sky. It is hard to realize that the 
morning lights are not the same ones which dis- 
appeared at bedtime. The interval of space 
passed by the night journey has been a blank to 
the senses; but, if in the passing, solitary lights 
along the way did not take you back to a partic- 
ular one in your dim past, when its little circle 

26 



THE LAMP ITSELF 

made for your comfort and pleasure during long 
imeventful evenings — it is a sure sign that you 
never had rural experience. If you did, there 
has been a most wonderful forgetting process at 
work in your system. 

That small world of light under the porcelain 
shade of the la.np — tonight it seems to hold the 
wandering mind within its glow, and keep away 
everything pertaining to the rush and clamor cf 
the streets c^utside. It is the soft, cozy glow 
which opened the realms cf mystery in bookland 
during the Lng winter evenings wrapped in the 
silence of the Nebraska prairie many years ago. 
In the shadows of the room., som.e rows of bocks 
dating back to these days, repcse on the shelves 
in various attitudes. 

But a sort of settling process has taken place, 
and many that in times past were intimate friends, 
or at least played an important part in the prep- 
aration for mature years, have sunk by the grav- 
ity of neglect to rows near the floor. Others 
more in the spirit of the times, hold the posts of 
honor. 

27 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

Who — if a favorite book of youthful days 
means anything more to him than so much pa- 
per between the covers — can avoid a little sigh 
for the day in his mind's youth, when those 
pages opened up new scenes, gave him knowl- 
edge bit by bit, and on pages of fiction found 
new friends to admire; possibly making a stan- 
dard fcr his selection cf future real cnes in flesh 
and blocd. 

Beyond the lamp's circle, other objects rest 
in varying degrees of shade and shadow. The 
tick of the clock completes the setting; for was it 
not in prairie days almost a living thing ? In the 
silent places, it came to mean more than a thing 
to record time; and when it struck the hours — 
well — in a room quiet enough for the clock to 
be good company, is where people really think. 




28 



Ill 

THE KEEPER OF THE LAMPS 

In the old kercsene days, there was one who 
filled the lamps, cleaned the burners, then wash- 
ed and polished the chimneys. This act was 
typical cf her pkce in the home. The small 
lamps gave little light at best, but clear chim.- 
neys helped. So the effort the pioneer mother 
put into the polishing, wes but a part of her 
tireless round to keep the home on the prairie 
waste bright and cheerful. 

No — "prairie waste," is net a fair appellation. 
Every acre yet unturned by the breaking-plow 
was heavy with grass, and the rich soil under- 
neath lay awaiting its mission to bring forth the 
wealth that would fulfill the settlers dream. 

There was pleasure in the green of spring and 
summer months, over the sun-bathed expanse 
extending to the unbroken horizon line in every 

29 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

direction. But for two-thirds of the year there 
was nothing in the view which gave comfort or 
a sense of companionship to her who tried as 
best she could to keep back thoughts of the old 
homeland far erst of the Missouri. There, the 
parental roof still sheltered these near and dear 
to her. Its surrounding acres were more endow- 
ed with the beauty of weeds and streams than 
the new home she was helping to make. 

Settlers in the creek valleys had a little timber 
along the stream's course; but on the treeless 
upland homesteads, the newly planted cotton- 
woods see^.-ed so slow in their growth for the 
first few years, that they only whetted the appe- 
tite for a sight ef the old eastern home trees and 
vines. Barrenness of the landscape for over half 
the year, must be considered ene of the greatest 
hardships the prairie mother had to endure in 
the beginning. Had she not in girlhood known 
the beauty of woods and streams elsewhere, it 
might not have mattered so much. 

Of course the longing for old home scenes and 
faces would have been there, even if the new 

30 



THE KEEPER OF THE LAMPS 

land had been a bower of beauty; but to look 
out day after day on a dead brown monotony 
stretching far on all sides, dotted sparsely with 
small sod or frame houses gave little food for in- 
spiration. Each family was out of hail of the 
other; must spend the day and night again and 
again in its own round of duties; must find in 
its small stock of books and papers the solace for 
the long hours; must see the fall days shorten 
and grow chilly at dusk, and know the storms 
of winter would s^on be ct hand, shutting off 
most of the visits to and from these distant neigh- 
bors. Each had to plan as best it might with 
the slender means at hand f^r bodily comJort, 
knowing that fuel w£S scarce — it is net strange 
that spring see.ied an age ahead. 

Is it any wonder, considering the surroundings, 
that the prairie mother carefully cleaned and pol- 
ished her kerosene lamps, so that when the win- 
dow shades were drawn for the long winter even- 
ings, the lamps might to the best of their feeble 
ability, carry into the night a little of the cheer 
which fading of daylight had taken away. 

31 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

One of the fondest hopes for the future of the 
new home was that the prospective railroad 
would pass near it. How little can anyone who 
has never known by personal experience the 
slow development of an isolated home, realize 
the joy brought by the news that trains would 
pass by it. To the small beys of the neighbor- 
hood, the announcement was the most stagger- 
ing thing they had ever heard. When in due 
time the surveying party appeared on the eastern 
horizon, the urchins cam.e near exploding with 
excitement. 

They breathlessly watched the surveyor set up 
the shining instrum.ent on three wooden legs, 
after which he gave directions to other men who 
went on ahead, and drove a line of new pine 
stakes in the short prairie grass. To the boys, 
these stakes looked as big as telegraph poles — so 
highly keyed was the imagination. 

Soon the construction work was under way, 
and it seemed strange to watch the grading gangs 
pitch their camp — then build the low embank- 
ment over the prairie, and make the high fills to 

32 



THE KEEPER OF THE LAMPS 

carry the track across the draws. Over the un- 
broken ground, where even a row of fenceposts 
made a decided change in the landscape, this 
new earth bed ready for the cress ties and rails, 
made it seem that pioneer days would end with 
the first train. 

One day, we, legal disciples of the little white 
school house a quarter of a mile from the scene 
of activity, heard a whistle far down the line cf 
the new grade. The thrill it created has never 
been equalled since. We knew it was the en- 
gine of the construction train approaching from 
the east. 

It was not yet visible, but favorable conditions 
of the air had wafted the melodious and wel- 
come sound to us. One of our number, how- 
ever, had been to the county seat some miles 
east; and while we listened eagerly and envious- 
ly, he told of seeing ties and rails placed on the 
embankment; and how the supply train followed 
closely over the track just laid. 

Before many days the spectacle advanced into 
our territory; then on beyond, and out of sight, 

33 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

so that in due time the "cars" passed daily on 
schedule. Thus we became saturated with civ- 
ilization, and wondered what our stage driver 
would do for a living. Perhaps they would let 
him become an engineer. 

For a time, the sight of a column of smoke in 
either direction where the read faded into the 
horizon, was the signal fur boys within half a 
mile of the track, to get in action and be "close 
up" to watch that majestic train cf three small 
coaches go thundering by. This caused the prai- 
rie mothers concern, because somie of the more 
risky urchins got into the habit cf standing quite 
close to the track, showing others how utterly in- 
different they were to such dangers. 

Striking an average of it, the prairie was an 
exceptionally good nursery for children, regard- 
less of sex. The mother need worry little for 
their safety when she turned them out to grass. 
Freedom of play was not hampered by fear of 
wild animals and reptiles, or dark woods to swal- 
low them up. The air was a health-giving one, 
excelled by no other under the sun. Coming for 

34 



THE KEEPER OF THE LAMPS 

miles over a sea of wild grasses, and filtered all 
the way by bright sunlight, those boisterous and 
fitful breezes gave the double cress to all germ 
creation. 

For the winter months, it was a problem of 
isolation as before stated. When the blizzards 
raged, providing pastimes for the children and 
keeping them fromi killing each other, kept the 
prairie micther on the alert. Since there were 
no laws in those days limiting the hours of labor 
for womien, she could stay on the job from dawn 
to bedtim^e without fear of prosecution. Possi- 
bly she had less tin e to get lonesom.e or indulge 
in longing thoughts for her old home than in 
more inviting see sons cf the year. 

A year in childhood — that is a long time; and 
a childhood winter on the bleak, new prairie 
was long — very long. 

It it little wonder that the budding days of ear- 
ly spring were times of joy. It was as a release 
after long imprisonment. Then it was that the 
sun, moon and stars all seemed to move in or- 
bits planned for our own piece of grass covered 

35 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

world. It seemed like the universe was young 
with us each spring, and joined us in investigat- 
ing the mysteries of the green prairie. We 
awoke each morning in a new world. In the 
long night's sleep, all griefs of the day before 
had faded from the plastic brain. Each day com- 
menced with a clean slate. 

It is easy to tell tales cf boyhood days, but to 
go back in memory and try to put yourself into 
the world cf thought in which you lived when a 
child, is a task accomplished by few. If it were 
an easier one, or at least attempted mere earnest- 
ly by these who have boys and girls to govern, 
the result iright be of benefit to both sides in 
the case. 

There are some who cannot even put them- 
selves back in thought to the day they turned 
twenty-one. When some elderly one remarks 
that there seems to be a lot of extremely young 
married couples nowadays, the chances are that 
if you look up his record, it will show him to 
have been a very youthful bridegroom himself. 
The only way to convince him, would be to show 

36 



THE KEEPER OF THE LAMPS 

the old family photograph album. Take him 
back to the beginning, just as you would hunt 
up the colonial settlement period in the old school 
history of the United States. 

Show the doubter the old fashioned picture 
of himself at the ages of from three to five, hold- 
ing as little resemblance to his mature and elder- 
ly self of t^day, as some vegetable growth in its 
early stage cf development, dees to the ripened 
product. Then bring him on page by page thru 
the album, and watch for that silly look which 
comes when he views himse-f in all the glory cf 
a wedding suit. 

But when the child studies the old family pic- 
torial record, he sees everything from the other 
end of the line, so to speak. To study the pic- 
tures of aunt Matilda and uncle Hezekiah, was 
almost enough to make one swallow the whole 
doctrine of evolution. 

The seven ages of man, indeed ! We tried 
hard to imagine what aunt and uncle were like 
in the dim, shadowy days, when dressed in the 
fashions of those times, the daguerreotyper took 

37 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

them for his victims. How we would like to 
have had them for playmates. Jolly as they were 
in mature years, at ten they must have been 
leaders in everything worth while. 

Reflecting on that point now, from an age 
where gray streaks the hair, it seems possible 
that aunt and uncle may have been only normal 
children after all when the old fashioned photo- 
graph was made. Their youthful days do not 
seem so wonderful now, since we have passed 
thru it all in our own existance. But in child- 
hood, when we knew only that one small world, 
it was too great a strain on the imagination to 
put a grown-up back in our class. 

As for grandmother and grandfather, the da- 
guerreotype did net reach quite back to their five 
or ten year days; and it was simply impossible to 
imagine them as ever being so small. They told 
us stories of their juvenile days, but it all seemed 
vague and unreal. 

So it was that mornings came to children out 
in the open sea of new land. Always an expect- 
ancy and a forgetfulness of the day before. A 

38 




"To the east— at the end of the dam, and 
framed in a bower of trees — the mill stood 
ma'estic and imposing." 

-page 38 



THE KEEPER OF THE LAMPS 

broken toy might be a reminder of yesterday's 
trouble, but even that had lost its sting. The 
grown-ups told us of new pleasures we might 
find that day. Just for today was enough. Liv- 
ing one day at a time, the weeks passed by, mak- 
ing up the long year cf childhood. 

In after years, it comes to mcst of us that the 
simple pleasures were greatest. What would you 
pay now, f^r som^ething which would give the 
thrill your Christmas stocking did in childhood ? 
Someone has well said that the attempt to explain 
an empty stocking to a child, is one of mother- 
hood's greatest tragedies. It causes the blackest 
hour in many a hom^e of the poor. 

When in boyhood days we went, in the seventh 
heaven of joy, for a holiday with the uncles and 
aunts or the grandparents, the thought never 
came to us that there might be apprehensive cor- 
diality in the smiling welcome they gave. As we 
greet our own young hopeful relatives now, there 
is, mixed with the pleasure of seeing them a sort 
of speculative wonder as to what wiU happen out 
of the ordinary. 

39 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

"Out to old aunt Mary's." Did she ever have 
a thought of what new prank might be put into 
execution by the boys who so eagerly trudged 
along the road in old Indiana ? If she did, the 
immortal Riley kept her secret. 

The reader might inquire why — if this chap- 
ter is supposed to be devoted to the mothers who 
did a full share in homestead days — why do you 
take so much space in telling about other mem- 
bers of the family, and dwell on trials and tribu- 
lations of the children ? 

This is done to put the chapter in a form that 
might suit those mothers, were they living today. 
Their interest was so taken in the affairs of the 
children, sisters and brothers, father and mother, 
that little thought went to any particular desire 
of their own. They lived the home life in that 
old fashioned way. 

In all that came with the round of childhood's 
year, the prairie mother was the leading spirit. 
She helped "make believe" when toys were few, 
and snow was drifting in long, sweeping gusts. 
She bundled them up for the long, cold walk to 

40 



THE KEEPER OF THE LAMPS 

school — her heart aching as she watched them 
trudging along the dreary roads; their frail little 
bodies pierced by the cold wind, and the noon- 
day lunch in their tin dinner pails freezing into 
chunks on the way. 

Two miles is a long way for a small child to 
walk under such conditions, arriving chilled thru 
at a school building which would have passed 
creditably for a cold storage warehouse. Some- 
times they reached it sobbing and trembling 
with cold; then ate a frozen lunch at noon. No 
very pleasant memory comies cf it today. To go 
a full term and not miss a day — what a task fcr 
a country child ! 

Yet all the long walks to schcol were not like 
this. There were dreamy, hazy days of fall when 
no better exercise could have been invented for 
them. Again, on some of those spring days, 
when the wild flowers along the road just had to 
be gathered, it proved that the students practic- 
ed self denial, else they would never have reach- 
ed the school house at all. They covered the 
teachers desk with flowers, and in the goodness 

41 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

of her heart, she overlcx^ked much. Probably 
she realized that her pupils would be more tract- 
able as a result of their morning exercise. 

In recalling lonely times and some of the hard- 
ships of the prairie mother's life, it must not be 
taken that her days were all privation and sor- 
row. Far from it. Since there is so frequently 
more pleasure in anticipation than in realization, 
she was always living with the thought of better 
days to cone. 

When one looks at a desert, and ponders over 
the dreary waste of sand, with its official and 
exclusive badge — sage brush — there is a feeling 
of depression, coming from thought of the worth- 
less past and future of the silent expanse. But 
in viewing a stretch of prairie, the idea is an en- 
tirely different one — at least if it is to be the fu- 
ture home. 

Nothing but grass may lie as far as the eye can 
see; but knowledge of the land's future worth, 
gives an entirely different feeling in the sense of 
possession. It may not be like the "spell" the 
desert silence causes in some people, but it is a 

42 



THE KEEPER OF THE LAMPS 

normal feeling, and does not breed lunatics. A 
Nebraska homesteader had other things to think 
about in idle moments. 

Thus the prairie mother had a vision of the 
future to console her for what the new home 
lacked, compared with the old. As soon as two 
or three crops were harvested, there would be 
the new house. The cottonwcods were growing, 
and the family talked of the beauty of home sur- 
roundings, when foliage would protect it from 
winter stor.n and shade from summ^er sun. 

Year by year as the desired conveniences were 
added to the home, and little journeys into the 
outside world came to be more numierous, it is 
possible that her lot was a happier one than she 
realized. 

As far as isolation gees, it may be that the 
prairie mother was no more isolated in the true 
sense of the word, than many city mothers of to- 
day. These, cooped up in a flat, are surround- 
ed by a lonesome wilderness of strange cold faces 
on every side. Their concern for the physical 
safety of the children is increased, and the moral 

43 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

safety as well. And now comes the landlord 
with a new kind of concern. It is manifested 
by the sign,- "No Children," 

There never was better society invented than 
that cf freeningling cf children and inhabitants 
of the barnyard. None of the animals in the 
combinaticn, unless it be a kicking mule, have 
bad habits to teach wiling young pupils. 

While the mother cou]d see her neighbors 
homes a long distance over the prairie, visiting 
days were sometimes far between; and no one 
seemed to dream that it would ever be other- 
wise. The present generation cannot quite get 
the idea. Life without the telephone and auto- 
mobile, is ancient history to the majority. They 
know nothing about staying st home because the 
"horses were too tired." 

During the early spring and summer months, 
the teams really did need all rest possible; and 
a man was considered a bad citizen if he used 
them for idle pleasure trips after the day's work. 
Thus visiting on Sunday began to undermine the 
housewife's peace of mind. At first, it came as 

44 



THE KEEPER OF THE LAMPS 

a real relief from the lonesomeness of the long 
week. Then as crops began to bring a little pros- 
perity, the Sunday dinner degenerated into a 
feast day, making it the hardest one of the week 
for mother officiating as chief cook. 

Visiting the sick on Sunday also fell from its 
pedestal of high purpose, and became a menace 
to the afflicted one. If he lived thru the excite- 
ment of a Sunday afternoon party held in his 
honor, it wes a good sign that he was on the 
mend. Otherwise, it would have killed him. 
Please understand that the reference is not to any- 
thing which the mothers did in ways to help the 
afflicted, but to thwSe gatherings of neighbors, 
calling to pay their respects, and remaining to 
visit each other. When the time for departure 
came, there were too many who could have truth- 
fully said, "we have had a very pleasant time." 
That night, the patient was closely watched for 
symptoms of a relapse. 

Once in a while there would be visits from 
those of blood and kin back in the old home. 
The joy and eager anticipation the news of their 

45 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

coming gave mother and her little brood, made 
the world all over again. How the days flew by 
after they arrived, until the two weeks or so 
dwindled to one day, tinged with sadness. At 
the last meal things didn't taste right, for that 
strange and unhappy sense of renewed separation 
for a long time, hung heavy on the heart. 

Then the good bye as the train pulls in. Even 
the sound of the whistle and bell seems different 
on this day; and to the one who is carried down 
the line— every conductor's "all abcard," has its 
pang for someone, and every car window has had 
its mist of tears. 

In due tine also came the day for the prairie 
mother's departure on a journey back to the old 
home of girlhood. Though she had eagerly count- 
ed the days yet remaining, her mind was filled 
with details of arrangements for the comfort of 
those to be left behind. 

Back among old friends and scenes, she found 
pleasure; but she also found that while the hills 
and woods were good to see again, ties of the 
new home had woven their irresistible spell. A 

46 



THE KEEPER OF THE LAMPS 

new sense of things, as related to the old home, 
came to her realization; and when the day came 
for the return trip, there was a feeling of thank- 
fulness f jr her responsibilities. She had beccme 
a genuine resident of Nebraska's prairie. 

Today, the native grasses which once lay for 
miles over our level county, are hard to find. 
Some of our country cemeteries are yet covered 
with it. Who knows whether or not the mothers 
of that day now at rest, would ask that this prai- 
rie grass might be left around their resting places 
for all time. 




47 



I never set eyes on a clover field now, 

Er fool round a stable, er climb in the mow; 

But my childhood comes back just as clear 

and as plain 
As the smell of the clover I'm sniff in' again; 
And 1 wander avv'ay in a bare^footed dream, 
Where 1 tangle my toes in the blossoms 

that gleam 
With the dew of dawn of the miorning of love 
Ere it wept o'er the graves I'm weepin' above. 
And so 1 love clover — it seems like a part 
Of the sacredest sorrows and joys of my heart. 

—RILEY. 



IV 

THE COURT HOUSE SQUARE 

In the early days of the plains, the court house 
square was indeed the center of the county. It 
might lack something geographically, of being in 
that position; but the pioneers made it a common 
center for many things. 

"On the east side of the square," "The south- 
west corner of the square," were easy ways of 
describing the location of places of business. To 
locate a store or office at a point beyond sight of 
the square, was to a great extent getting off the 
line of travel. 

A row of hitching posts stood along each side 
like sentinels. Here, the farmer tied his team, 
when the trip to town was only for a short stay. 
For his business errands, he did not care to go 

49 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

unnecessarily far from his rig. He wished to 
keep an eye on his horses, and see that nothing 
in the wagon was disturbed. 

For these and similar reasons, hitching on side 
streets and vacant lots did not appeal to him. He 
could go around and around the square, if it is 
possible to go around anything which is square; 
and yet keep in close touch with his locomotive 
apparatus. 

Let it be whispered softly, that the conven- 
ience of this method compelled many a poor horse 
to stand too long. By the tiiiie the homeward 
journey began, it was a hungry team that saw 
the miles lay long ahead of it, with oats and hay 
at the other end cf the route. 

The value of business locations "on the square," 
was early seen. In effect, it seemed that all who 
had wares to sell, wanted their signs hung where 
the farmer could study them while tying his team. 
Those who laid out the town, probably thought 
its growth ought to cease at a square full. 

I saw the old place a few months ago. There 
was the same courthouse which awed "us kids," 

50 



THE COURT HOUSE SQUARE 

with the splendor of its architecture, when it 
was built in the early eighties and overtopped 
everything around the square at the time. The 
Capitol at Washington could not have impressed 
us more profoundly. 

Especially when we went into the county treas- 
urer's office with father, and looked around pop- 
eyed in wonder, while he paid his annual taxes. 
To us, the rooms were splendid as marble hells; 
and we gazed in facinated awe at the treasurer 
himself. He lived on a farm before he was elect- 
ed to this exalted position. We had seen him 
wearing old farm clothes, and remembered with 
pride in the thought, that he once helped us thresh. 
To see him now — all dressed up and so courtly 
looking — well, it proved that a farmer could get 
to be somebody once in a while. 

Father tried to be sociable with him for old 
times sake; but he upheld the dignity of the of- 
fice splendidly, and only let the humble tax payer 
have enough smiles to insure his vote at the next 
election. In those days, ex-farmers tried to for- 
get their rural past. 

51 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

The resemblance to the old-time square ends 
with the building in the center. The streets 
surrounding the lawn are excellently paved, with 
neat cement curbing. Where that line of hitch- 
ing posts could have stood, there is no telling. 
But now, things are more formal. The cotton- 
woods which in years past gave such enjoyable 
shade and picturesque setting for the courthouse, 
are gone root and branch. 

This makes the old timers heave a sigh; for the 
cottonwoods had a warm place in their hearts, 
which the present generation has not inherited. 
In place cf these old trees, on what is now a reg- 
ulation lawn, small ones of an aristocratic breed 
are arranged in perfect order. The commission- 
ers, no doubt, had a surveyor lay out the rows 
according tw Hoy.e. 

But again by the law of contrast, I can bring 
up a vision of the old square of nearly forty years 
ago. The passing of an elderly man in a shining 
automobile helped; for in a flash I saw this man 
who guided the car with such dignity and grace, 
and withal such a look of prosperous ease on his 

S2 



THE COURT HOUSE SQUARE 

countenance — I saw this distinguished citizen 
coming into town on another occasion. 

The outfit he commanded on that day was at 
par with the square in its general appearance. 
The rain had been generous during a preceding 
week of August. The unpaved streets were but 
masses of black mud, chopped up fine by those 
narrow-tired wagons. Restless horses fightirg 
flies had lowered the dirt ar the hitching pcste, 
so that the teairs now stocd in water nearly ankle 
deep ail along the lines. 

Since the rains had temporarily stopped farm 
work, there was a full house in town. Hitching 
space was at premiun:, especially so because it 
was Saturday. At that ti ne the honor of riding 
to town in a new wagon, resplendent with gor- 
geous colors, was sufficient for one day. A"spring 
seat" had become by general custom of the ve- 
hicle makers, a part of every new wagon. Now 
and then a farmer who was utterly extravagant 
and heedless of possible coming to want in his 
old age, would buy an extra seat so that all mem- 
bers of the family could ride in comfort. But 

53 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

the idea of tying up two dollars and a quarter in 
something which could not be used every day, 
was frowned upon by the community. 

In this day of my vision, the rig had nothing 
new about it. The wagon gave no clue as to its 
original color. It spoke, however, of long years 
in service. It had been new at some period, no 
doubt, back in one of the three big Fs. They 
were, of course, Iowa, Illinois and Indiana — the 
states which furnished the majority of the set- 
tlers for the new county. 

Every hitching space around the square is tak- 
en; so the pioneer drives along the lines watch- 
ing for someone who might have finished the 
errands of the day, and be starting for home. He 
thus finds a place at last; and reaching to his 
limit over mud and water, ties the team. Then 
from the dilapidated wagon, he takes a cargo of 
eggs. The price at that time of year was not a 
present day cold storage one either. 

His overalls were patched, and the remainder 
of the costume harmonized with them. Consid- 
ering the outfit, driver and all, it is not difficult 

54 



THE COURT HOUSE SQUARE 

to see how the wave of Populism got started. 
He was not poverty stricken, but over his farm 
hung the traditional mortgage. Even a basket of 
eggs at that old midsummer price, was worth 
bringing to town. 

There should be a bronze statue of the hen in 
every county seat on the plains. In time of crop 
failure she kept scratching around — laid as usual, 
while the farmer awaited to take the one sure to 
goodness product to town. 

It is a hard matter now, with a square sur- 
rounded by substantial brick buildings with dis- 
play windows of metropolitan appearance, to te'l 
of the scene to which the egg-laden agriculturist 
turned as he left the wagon. Talk of hollow and 
deceptive shams — those wooden store buildings 
with the exceedingly elaborate box-fronts looked 
it when seen from the alley. And the sidewalks 
in front of them — little like the broad uniform 
cement there now. Surely the old days are gone. 
Did the elderly, prosperous-looking man in ths 
touring car happen to think of it as he passed 
the square ? Would he have recognized the young 

55 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP. 

man with patched overalls and rickety wagon? 
Would he bring a basket of eggs to town in that 
car? Perhaps so, for he made his money at- 
tending to the small details well. 

During the half century of its history, our 
courthouse square has been a most orderly spot. 
No saloon ever flaunted its brazen sign there to 
the homesteaders or their descendents. No riot 
has ever blackened its name. 

The nearest we ever came to a riot, was when 
some of those enterprising, build-up-our-towners 
expostulated against removal of the hitching-pcsts 
from the square — a proposition which was prob- 
ably fought in every county of the state. 

In those days the degree to which one was ru- 
ral, was settled mostly by the distance he lived 
from town. If only a mile or two out, he did 
not seem so hopelessly countrified as the fellow 
a dozen miles away. At least that was the idea 
the boys had on the subject. There was little 
in the early life to make exciting experiences for 
the prairie children. They had happiness after 
a fashion, but there was scant material for liter- 

56 



THE COURT HOUSE SQUARE 

ature relating to the country. Riley could not 
have been suppressed, had he been born in any 
other state than Indiana; but on the plains, his 
ingenuity would have been sorely taxed. 

It is one thing to recall in memory a picture 
of days long past, and another to put it in words 
so that others may see it in something like the 
same perspective and colcring. To put down the 
routine of our daily lives on the peaceful prairie, 
and give to the tale "literary readableness," takes 
ingenuity somewhat like that cf the housewife, 
who at times must plan appetizing meals from a 
limited variety of materials. 

There were no Indians nor vicious animals to 
furnish themes for stories of narrow escapes. We 
never had to dodge anything more dangerous 
than lightning-rod agents in the way of varmints. 
There was none of the silent romance of the 
desert to give a halo. Even had moving pictures 
been an institution at the time, a thousand foot 
reel would have been about all necessary to sup- 
ply public demand. The western pictures which 
make the film companies rich, are not staged on 

57 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

prairie of the prosaic type. It has been said that 

the bible and the shotgun went side by side in 

western settlement. Eastern Nebraska had both, 

but the shotgun was used for peaceful purposes 

only — if increasing the speed of the elusive and l\ 

frolicsome jack rabbit, can be so classed. 

Yes, the old courthouse square is gone. There 
is one now, occupying the same place the old one 
had; but it is nothing like the one where we 
country boys tied our teams so long ago. While 
of the old days and the old square, there are a 
number of pleasant memories, this is not an old 
man's sigh for the "good old times." It is a new 
and better square now; where the comfort and 
convenience of things over that level land, is we 1 
shown by the new dress of the county seat. It 
all comes from the harvest of those same level 
acres; for no factory smoke darkens the sky. The 
gifts of sun and rain, make the measure of wealth 
from year to year. 

It is a mighty strange thing, that the shrink- 
age of wooden buildings by age has never excited 
comment. Are all the learned professors napping ? 

58 



THE COURT HOUSE SQUARE 

Many years ago on the main street leading from 
the square, the well-to-do had built mansions of 
wood. When the country boy passed along that 
street on his way into town, he was much awed 
by those imposing structures, and envied the 
people who lived therein. It seemed that they 
lived in a higher world than ordinary folks out 
in the country. With no chores to do at night 
or morning, no coarse work clothes to wear, 
and buying everything to eat at the stores, — cer- 
tainly they must be free from all care and drudg- 
ery. That would be better than Sunday seven 
days a week on the farm; for the cows had to be 
milked every old day. 

Once in a while a carriage load from one of the 
stately residences, would come to the country for 
a day's visit. It seemed to the urchins at the 
farm like a day with royalty. The carriage bob- 
bed up and down so softly when they tried the 
springs. The "livery" team's light harness was 
so much nicer than the heavy sets which the 
farm horses wore. Our childish hearts longed 
for the glitter of new things. 

59 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

It must surely seem to those city folks that 
the country home was very plain in comparison 
to the splendor of theirs on the leading street in 
town. But they heartily approved of mother's 
dinner. The way they ate it, and complimented 
the cook, left no doubts. This fact proved them 
to be mortal, and the gulf between us did not 
appear so great. 

But a stange thing has happened — discovered 
while strolling over the little city and studying 
landmarks near the square. These mansions 
which so awed the boys back in the eighties, 
have dwindled to about one-third their original 
size — all due to the shrinkage of the lumber, no 
doubt. No part of them has been taken away. 
Every fancy porch and scroll-piece is there; but 
all so small and commonplace compared with the 
modern houses around them. 

"When dreams come true." There was a boy- 
hood dream, of living some day in one of those 
places. Just now, it dees not seem that living 
there would be the fulfillment of a dream worth 
telling about. 

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THE COURT HOUSE SQUARE 

In the day of the square with box-front stores, 
there was a wider gulf socially between the far- 
mer and merchant, than exists today. When the 
man close to nature tied his team at the row of 
hitching posts, and went in with his butter and 
eggs, he sometimes cringed a little as he steed 
before the august presence; and was grateful for 
any little inquiry concerning the welfare of the 
family at home. 

Nowadays, the farmer's car glides up to the 
door, and his women folks alight as unconcerned 
as you please. Cream and eggs have an indepen- 
dent market elsewhere, and are a small factor in 
trade with the stores. The merchant knows the t 
the farmer will buy where he pleases. 

At the bank, he dees net now enter like his 
trial by judge and jury was in progress, with a 
good chance for conviction. In many cases he 
is a director in the institution. More than that, 
he may be actually living in the county seat — 
what time he is not in California. But he still 
passes as a farmer, and does not wish to be called 
anything else. Thirty years ago, though — it was 

61 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

different. The change in his relation with the 
merchant has to some extent been caused by the 
explosion of a fallicy of the olden days. 

In the beginning, the home merchant waxed 
eloquent in describing the beauties and benefits 
of the "Buy it at home" plan. The farmer who 
dared to buy anything anywhere but in the town 
nearest which he lived, or who ordered anything 
from places outside, was held up as a horrible 
example of the kind of man who didn't care a bit 
whether or not the home town amounted to a bag 
of shucks. But after a while the rural folks no- 
ticed this fact: 

The storekeeper in the town of five hundred 
went to the county seat to do much of his own 
family trading, where more of a variety could be 
had. The merchant at the county seat, went to 
the state capitol with his family to do buying cf 
their private family clothing; and the Lincoln 
merchant's wife went to Chicago for hers. 

All that phenomenon among the "Build up 
our town" folks, set the plodder in the fields to 
thinking; and a new light came to him. 

62 



THE COURT HOUSE SQUARE 

This illumination showed him clearly that the 
ones who gave him such wonderful home-buying 
arguments, were not in business for health's sake 
or to build up the town. They were there to get 
every dollar which could be gotten out. When 
one of them prospered, he did not stay to help 
said home town any longer, but sold out and went 
to California or some other congenial clime. No 
more sleepless nights worrying about the welfare 
of the old town for him. 

So the farmer began to buy in Chicago also, 
and the home merchant gnashed his teeth — his 
own teeth, or store teeth at least — not the far- 
mer's. But the farmer's course proved best fcr 
the town and county in the long run. It placed 
everything on a business basis. 

There are excellent stores around the square 
today. The owners realize that they must make 
it a business proposition; and sell goods at a price 
which will allow the farmer to buy consistently 
at home. As a result, these county seats are 
"building up," on sound principles. It is a sure 
sign of a weak town when the " Buy it at home" 

63 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

wail must be used to get customers. A few min- 
utes study of local advertising in the county pa- 
pers will usually tell whether or not a bimch of 
dead ones is soliciting patronage. 

When electric arc lights were placed on the 
court house tower, it brought the very latest civ- 
ilization had to offer, right into our midst. If 
the wise men of the east who saw the new star 
and its halo, were more impressed by it than we 
youngsters were by those arc lights, they marvel- 
ed greatly indeed. 

It was so different from the light of kerosene 
lamps, our only standard for comparison. When 
at night we were so fortunate as to attend a pc- 
litical rally or celebration of some sort, the pub- 
lic square seemed a sort of dreamland with light 
of a strange and unearthly lustre; giving a new 
complexion to old friends we met there. 

Those trips to the county seat were always 
looked forward to with eagerness. Nothing dim- 
med the splendor until — probably it was the first 
excursion to the state fair which gave us the 
nerve to walk about the square with our heads 

64 



THE COURT HOUSE SQUARE 

higher, and less feeling of awe gnawing at our 
vitals. On second thought, it seems more prob- 
able that hunger was disturbing the vitals; for a 
boy never went anywhere, who did not get hun- 
gry the first thing, no matter how well he had 
been fed a few hours previously. 

Once in a while the prairie lad tired of good, 
sensible grub. Arrived in town for the day, a 
dinner of bakery goods so te'T-ptingly displayed in 
the windows, see ned all that was necessary to 
complete a glorious occasion. Long before sup- 
per time — wonder indeed — a delusion came, in 
which it appeared that the noonday lunch had 
been merely a dream. The stomach called for its 
regular diet, and nothing in all the bakery dis- 
play could arouse its enthusiasm. 

On. the way home that night, the boy who had 
so eagerly anticipated the feast of floury products, 
reflected on the stability of home cooking. At 
that time, he had heard nothing concerning the 
science of balanced rations. And now in these 
after years, when the shabby cooking in some 
hotel or restaurant make him pause and heave a 

65 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

sigh, there comes a grim smile at the thought of 
his boyish dissatisfaction with things good and 
wholesome at home. 

Long before this, it would seem that the last 
word had been written about circus day. Stories 
of it have been a fad in the popular magazines, 
for the last ten years. Circus day— one of the 
things which not only was — but still is. It hrs 
simply kept pace with change in the times. The 
up-to-date show, matches the new county seat. 
None of the interest which it awakened, when 
we drove a dozen or twenty miles in wagons to 
see one ring of it, has been lest in the change to 
automobiles and three rings of the same old cir- 
cus with added attractions. 

But the great annual event certainly meant a 
day of wonder to homes far from town. Diver- 
sions were so few then, that it could not be oth- 
erwise. Thus "going to take the children," was 
as popular an excuse then as it is now, and ever 
will be. One could not arise early enough these 
circus day mornings to see the first wagons speed- 
ing over the level prairie roads, for the reason 

66 



THE COURT HOUSE SQUARE 

that the first rigs went by before daylight. It 
was to be the whole day in town or nothing, for 
those early birds; and there was a worm to catch 
also — a suitable place to leave the team. Lucky 
was the man with friends in town, who had a 
barn where he might put the team; for public 
facilities would be badly crowded. Did you ever 
see a livery stable on circus day ? 

If these rambling chapters were to be read by 
farmers — now elderly — who lived on the prairie 
for the main working period of their lives, only 
a small per cent would be found reading under 
the light cf the kerosene lamp. The majority cf 
them have either "gone to town" to live in some 
little city of from five to ten thousand inhabitants, 
with which these prairie states abound, or have 
gone to Calif urnia to spend their declining years; 
and, believe me, the first thing their wives ditch- 
ed when packing for the move, was the kerosene 
lamp. The everlasting bother of filling them and 
cleaning chimneys was to be over at last. 

Southern California owes much of its prosperi- 
ty to the colonies of ex-prairie men who camiC 

67 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

bringing with them the wherewith to live for the 
remainder of their days. Someone has said that 
the prairie country has been, practically, but the 
camping ground of thousands coming from states 
east of the Mississippi, hoping to reach the Pacific 
coast. There is more truth in the assertion than 
many would care to admit; but they camped on 
the grassy plains long enough to raise their fami- 
lies, and accumulate a setting of nest eggs for old 
age. The soil they tilled, should have full cred- 
it for its part. A look over the lists of real estate 
transfers in some of those counties, will show it 
to be getting this credit. 

To state the true inwardness of why the pio- 
neer fathers of these cottonwocd-bordered farms, 
took refuge in California after their retirement 
from active duties, compels us to whisper another 
reason. Naturally, soft climate of the coast was 
soothing to the ailments acquired during strenu- 
ous years; but this other reason hinted at was — 
they had to go out there, to get rid of the boys 
and a son-in-law or two. These pesky kids, — 
now full-fledged and in active control of father's 

68 



THE COURT HOUSE SQUARE 

farms, persisted in routing the old gentlemen out 
in harvest, and at all times when extra help was 
needed; and sometimes when it was not needed. 
These fathers had "retired," and must uphold 
the dignity of their retirement; so what else was 
there for them to do, but go far over the Rocky 
ranges. After that, all the precaution needed, 
was to time their visits to miss the rush days cf 
harvest or planting. 

In the winter sunshine of California or Florida 
today, can be seen little groups cf elderly men in 
small parks where seats are plentiful, or in the 
corner where horse shoes ring against the stake. 
To one raised among the-n, long before their 
present easy days began, the identification comes 
quickly. There is a touch of sadness to it, de- 
spite the comfort of palms and sea breezes; for as 
they talk together, there is a wistf ulness and some 
times a little sigh, as they tell tales of old days 
when they drove to the now far away county seat, 
and tied their teams at that central point for all 
exchanges — the courthouse square. 



69 



V 

EVENING PEACE IN THE FIELDS 

The peace of evening in the fields,— it is hard 
to describe, but it is there — a distinctive kind 
and quality; and it comes after a long day's work 
is done. It must be seen and felt to be appreciat- 
ed. Did you ever, after plowing all day, go back 
to the field after supper on some repair errand, 
or for your ccat or other article forgotten? It 
was just as the sun was ready to sink below the 
horizon, a gold and red disk with nearly all pow- 
er of heat gone. The rays stifled by their long 
slanting journey through the dust-laden lower air. 
It is the same sun whose heat at noon was almost 
unbearable; but it cannot cast even a shadow now 
although it sinks in a sky free from cloud. 

The team is in the barn, eating their well 
earned supper. The plow stands by the last fur- 
row, polished like a mirror by friction of the 

71 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

turning and sliding soil. One knew what end- 
less trouble it made to let rust gather on the mould 
board by carelessness. 

In the silence at sundown— without horses in 
their places ahead of the plow, there is a strange- 
ness in the scene which gives the idea that all 
things of the field are at rest — that the peace of 
evening has come there, as to the living things 
about it. The furrow which was followed dur- 
ing hours of sunshine, seems long and unfamiliar 
in the soft light. It would be rather lonesome to 
follow around the "land "again. 

Thru the stillness come faint sounds from our 
neighbors farms, all telling of chore-tim.e. Then, 
floating over the fields, comes the benediction to 
close of day — the meadow lark's sunset song — 
sweetest carol of all the prairie. It was a joyous 
greeting to the sun and new day, that he sang in 
the morning, as the horses settled against their 
collars for the first round. 

The dew is falling, and the furrows fade into the 
dusk. Thru the grove of young cotton woods comes 
a gleam of light from a window. Someone has 

72 



, EVENING PEACE IN THE FIELDS 

lighted the kerosene lamp, and for an hour or two 
the peace of evening will be transferred from the 
fields to a room where stillness is broken only by 
the ticking of the clock, and faint echoes from 
the barnyards. 

Many a youth has fancied that life was rather 
quiet at such a time. Later on in life, with the 
roar of the city in their ears, and some of the 
grind of it racking their nerves, these same boys 
have had visions of the peace cf evening in the 
fields long ago. They talk cf it, and tell the glo- 
ries of it, and how they are going back to it some 
day; but when we ask who ever went back, echo 
answers—^ Who"? 

The variety of prairie peace under discussion, 
might vary with the time of year. During the 
weltering days of July and August, it was chang- 
ed from the sunset hour to that before dawn; for 
with the steady wearing strain of mosquitoes and 
flies, there was no peace for either man or beast 
at sundown. To arise just before the glow began 
to tint the eastern sky, and go out to see stock 
enjoying a brief respite from those miserable in- 

73 



UNDER THE ICEROSENE LAMP 

sect pests, took away all pleasure of seeing the 
sunrise which would usher in another blistering, 
scorching day. It was the peace of early mcrn- 
ing and the quiet, starry sky seemed a mcst de- 
lectable thing. 

"Under the stars," — what an expression, with 
which to conjure. Kow many literary stunts it 
has helped those to pull off, who, wise to tricks 
of the trade — arrange a little scene in nature and 
put over it a mantle of, "Under the stars." But 
their scenes must be staged in the open country, 
to get the full effect. It takes the whole domie cf 
sky to complete the setting. Thus it came about 
that under the Nebraska sky, when all working 
conditions were right, some cf the mcst beauti- 
ful moonlight nights on the face of the earth came 
to us at times; and some of the softest and gentlest 
night breezes that ever stirred a wild rose petal, 
wafted the scent over our fields. 

To draw in detail the nearly treeless prairie as 
it was in early days, — the skies with a great va- 
riety of cloud formations in spring or summer, 
and beautiful tints in autumn, must be brought 

74 



EVENING PEACE IN THE FIELDS 

in to give perspective. In a room bare of furni- 
ture, if the walls are of pleasing color and taste- 
fully decorated, the place seems half way home- 
like; and if a carpet in harmony is placed on the 
floor, little else is needed. In this way, natures's 
forces turned the miles of prairie into a vast room 
of colors every spring. Beautiful cloud forirs 
decorated the sky, and a carpet cf short, but rich 
grass covered the great floors of fertile virgin S3il. 
Days there were when we seemed but pigmies in 
a palace of boundless dimensions. 

During the fall, after frosts had withered the 
carpet, the sky walls had for a time tints beyond 
compare. If the colors of October and November 
sunrises and sunsets could be put on the artist's 
canvas without the least exaggeration, and then 
shown to some of the stay-at-homes in eastern 
states, it would be labor lost. For who of them 
would believe that gorgeous coloring to be possi- 
ble in Natures art gallery — the sky. These vivid 
tints of sky and fringe of cloud, are the wonder 
and delight of the stranger who views Nebraska 
or Kansas sunsets for the first time. 

75 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

But from December to February inclusive, it 
did take a strong imagination to get beauty from 
the materials at hand, excepting when some out 
of season freak presented itself. It was not until 
some spring-like day in March that it was worth 
while to look for anything of much interest in 
the sky. In late March or early April, pleasures 
came in watching the clouds of overdue winter 
storms change into fleecy, floating clouds of spring 
as the stor.n exhausts its force and the resistless 
rays of the sun, now high in the heavens, takes 
the wintry-like aspect away when the north wind 
dies down. 

But spring-like days do not make spring; and 
it was not until one felt that winter's last effort 
had been squelched, that inexpressable satisfac- 
tion came in watching the fitful skies. 

That afternoon sunshine of a spring day on the 
prairie. Let us see — yes, it was late April; al- 
most time for preparation of those little baskets^ 
to be filled with such simple flowers as could be 
found, and hung on the doorknobs by stealthy 
and crafty youngsters. For several days an end- 

76 



EVENING PEACE IN THE FIELDS 

less army of clouds had been driving out of the 
north. They gave us first, heavy, rolling mists. 
Then showers of cold rain; and as the tempera- 
ture dropped a little lower, a blinding flurry of 
big snowflakes, melting as they struck the newly 
plowed fields and pastures, now showing green. 
Springlike days had come in goodly number, and 
days which almost scorched with the heat of sum- 
mer. Days, "When early March seemed middle 
May," as Riley puts it. We enjoyed them, and 
spring work went on; but we knew full well that 
in the north there yet lurked unpleasant possibil- 
ities. We must have our spring blizzards, built 
on the same general plan as those of winter, but 
mild in comparison. 

Now, the big flakes begin to spread a coating 
over the evidences of incipient spring. There is 
white over the new green, and things look dreary 
around the barnyards. Everybody is housed up; 
but there is a satisfying thought. All knew the 
storm would fade away so rapidly when the wind 
died down, that spring's return wotld be a tri- 
imiphant and glorious affair. 

77 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

So when the clouds began to break at noon of 
the last day, the sun was on the job in less time 
than it takes to tell the story. Before it sank be- 
yond the horizon that night, the new grass after 
its snow bath looked brighter than ever, in con- 
trast against the deep black soil of freshly mois- 
tened fields. And these lazy, floating clouds of 
spring, which tock the sunset tints that night — 
there was something reassuring in then?. It wrs 
as if they said, "Its all over now; we'll stay this 
time." Spring was enthroned, and the shouting 
frogs told their joy .by moonlight. 

Evening peace in the fields — yes, it would take 
many pages to tell of the sunset hour, as seasons 
came and went. You — who knew toil under the 
blistering sun, years ago, get a kerosene lamp of 
the kind you rested by after chores were done. 
Memory may give to you many pleasing pictures 
of inanimate things at rest. 





78 



VI 

FOR COURTING PURPOSES ONLY 

That was Henry Blank's new buggy. All over 
the United States, for that matter, a young man s 
possession of such a vehicle was regarded as more 
or less of a sign of interest in the fair sex. But 
in Henry's case, knowing him as they did, the 
neighbors were quick to fathom the secret of a 
very extraordinary purchase. 

He had paid but little attention to the girls 
during the twenty-eight years of his existence. 
Living at h3me, his activities had centered on 
the accumulation of horses, cattle and hogs, and 
other personal property of the farm. Recently 
another, "place," had been added to his father's 
possessions. Some of the ever present wiseacres 
of the community, had lost no time in telling 
the son that he ought to, "get him a woman," 
and move over to the new farm. 

79 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

Now farming is an occupation which particu- 
larly requires a "woman," for the success of var- 
ious operations carried on. Therefore, a large 
per cent of rural marriages are for a definite and 
practical purpose. The lord and master of the 
farm must have a wife for cook, housekeeper, 
saiall chore hand, and sometimes general rousta- 
bout or far v janitor. 

Owing to his past indifference in social mat- 
ters, especially where the girls were concerned, 
Henry knew that his appearance in the new bug- 
gy, wouid be taken as a public announcement of 
his candidacy, or a declaration of intentions. As 
he drove into town, and tied his horse to a hitch- 
ing post on the main street, all effort went toward 
maintaining an unconcerned countenance. But 
when he saw several local gossips standing in 
front of a grocery store, and felt the influence of 
their clear penetrating gaze, he heartily and fer- 
vently wished that it were possible to carry out 
his plans, without the publicity which would 
come now with every move. Certain unwritten 
rural rules almost frightened him. 

80 



k 



FOR COURTING PURPOSES ONLY 

For in the country town of that time, there 
was a prescribed course of conduct for young 
"couples." They must while, "going together," 
attend the sociables, icecream suppers and enter- 
tainments at ''haJls.*' Sunday nights, they rrust 
go to church some place or other, regardless as 
to whether either had a me:abership in any par- 
ticular denomination or religious convictions in 
general. It was not approved custom to spend 
the evening at the fair one's home. They must 
"go" somewhere, or there was little excuse fcr 
the young man being in her society. 

In stormy months, or during a lull of public 
and private "doings," swains cf the prairie were 
hard put for opportunity to meet the young ladies 
for whom their buggies were kept in good run- 
ning order. Therefore, when the minister read 
his list of announcements for the week at Sunday 
services, the "single fellows," listened with inter- 
est; for here was news of legal and aboveboard 
chances to act as escorts to whatever was on hand. 
They got busy, and many dates were made before 
the Sabbath went out on stroke of twelve. 

81 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

Since the churches in these days were the 
main gathering places for young and old, it hap- 
pened that many young men made a regular prac- 
tice of attending on Sundays, because the girls 
would be there. And someone has said — not the 
author of this profound treatise — that many of 
the girJs attended because the beys did so. But 
even if these charges could be proven, it would 
only illustrate the necessity for such attendance, 
because social affairs were so liriited. 

Summing up the matter cf opportunity, it can 
be stated that few engagements of the time failed 
to end in marriage. With so little chance fcr 
each other's company, the betrothed ones had 
but small excuse to tire cf each other beforehand. 
The stability of courtship, was helped by the 
stimulant of unfamiliarity. 

Hampered by the usual inquisitive scrutiny of 
the small community, many of the young people 
heartily wished themselves far away where af- 
fairs of the heart could be considered private 
business. Henry had a feeling of that sort as he 
drove into town in the new buggy. Nobody 

82 



I 



FOR COURTING PURPOSES ONLY 

knows how many of our rural young people mi- 
grating cityward, do so to get away from this 
family-like interert in their mating affairs. It 
was common law in the village and vicinity, that 
a girl obligated herself to a fellow, if she "went" 
with the same one more than four or five tim^es. 
And if she accepted his company for three months 
or more, it was considered a breach of good man- 
ners not to marry him. 

After that length of tin:e, it was an embarrass- 
ing thing to "quit." It left open the question to 
these who were watching, as to which one get 
the mitten. To some girls who felt sure that they 
were considered charming, it gave no concern. 
These figured that the community at large would 
take it as a part of the law of natural selection, 
that the ex-beau had been dismissed. In a case 
of this kind, the victim usually sat on the back 
row of seats for a time, until the audience could 
have time to forget him. If the young lady made 
her appearance with a new escort, the discarded 
one darkened the church door no more until a de- 
cent period of mourning had elapsed. 

83 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

Now Henry's entering the field of courtship 
in such an admittedly practical way, had at least 
a few points of superiority over some other meth- 
ods. The fact of his attempted late coming into 
female society, proved nothing against him.. He 
was sound of body, and free from that kind of 
worldly knowledge which might have given him 
a lessened respect for womankind. 

There is no denying that the new buggy with 
all its shining paint, gave small promise fcr a 
thrilling tale of love and ronance. But ccnsic- 
ering the bride-to-be, — well — suppcse she had 
married one of the dashing village beaus, whcse 
affections had been blighted in a dczen different 
"love affairs," and with pieces of his heart, fig- 
uratively speaking, scattered all over the county. 
Those who think her chances for happiness bet- 
ter with Henry, please raise a hand. 

Most any girl might wish that her knight came 
with more grace and inborn admiration for her 
sex, than did he. But between his business-like 
way of seeking a partner, and that of the oppo- 
site extreme — the country beau who prided him- 

84 



FOR COURTING PURPOSES ONLY 

self on the number of girls he had "went with," 
the thoughtful girl would see the former's good 
points. She might, with tact, make a very sat- 
isfactory husband cf him; while with the "ladies 
man," her efforts would all have to go in shew- 
ing superiority over his old flames. 

This homely reasoning is to a certain extent 
given in terms of that time and place, but blunt 
facts are there, nevertheless. We would net rob 
the world cf its romance by having the youth of 
our land come a courting after Henry's fashion, 
no matter how brightly they might keep the paint 
shining on their buggies. But we have been 
greatly peeved by the perusal of long drawn and 
harrowing experiences of the cautious lovers in 
present day periodicals. Here, each primed with 
suspicion, and wise to all meanness to which the 
sex of either is prone — fights a battle of long du- 
ration, to find out whether either has enough 
good qualitias to be endurable for what little of 
life is left, when the long inquisition is over. 

After all this, knowing life for them is likely 
to be rather humdrum following so much excite- 

85 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

ment, it is a pleasant picture to see in memory, 
the youthful couples who knew little of tricks in 
high life. The majority of country beaus, those 
days, certainly treated the fair sex with more re- 
spect, than does the modern lady-killer of the 
city. That idea cf establishing a home, seem_ed 
at least, to put a more serious note into the songs 
of love, with which the young farmer wooed his 
neighbor's daughter. For, mind you, the com- 
munity attended mcstly to its own marrying it 
that tiT^e, and very few outsiders made success- 
ful applications for heart and hand. It was all 
quite different from modern city conditions, in 
which the fact that a homxe must be established, 
too frequently makes against the marriage. 

Nowadays, on the flat-lined streets, youthful 
brides and grooms go gingerly up and down, crit- 
ically looking at "apartments." Sad to relate, the 
one selected often takes too large a portion of the 
young "provider's" salary. Appearances must 
be kept up at any price; and worst of all, a real 
sense of home is not there. Constant reminder 
of the fleetness of all things flatty, is visible from 

86 



FOR COURTING PURPOSES ONLY 

their windows. For the moving vans are busy, 
transporting household furniture from flat to flat; 
and the young folks contract the moving fever 
from the restless air about them. 

But in the neighborhood where Flenry's new 
buggy shone resplendent in the sun, there was 
the idea of permanence in the minds of youthful 
couples, who mated in the good, old-fashioned 
way. Whether or not the wall paper and furni- 
ture were in perfect har nony, caused them very 
little concern; and the thought cf moving, was 
but a far away possibility. 

The galling part was publicity of courtship, as 
aforestated and described. Henry was not the 
only one who might feel embarrassed, when he 
made his debut as a young lady's escort. Girls 
there might be, who would have no objection to 
riding in the new buggy, or allowing the owner 
to chaperone them to local doings. But they very 
naturally shrank from being announced after the 
first appearance, as bride-to-be of Mr. H. Blank. 
The news would come from — on aid society aft- 
ernoons, the ladies exchanged ideas, and — 

87 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

If, instead of Henry, it had been the young 
drug clerk or the "depot agent," who simply 
boarded at the village hotel and were considered 
semitransients in town, little comment would 
have been made. These two gentlemen would 
not be under the suspicion of looking for a happy 
home. Henry's case, however, would be too 
plain to fool the watchful ones who always knew, 
and sometimes knew when they did not know. 
James Lane Allen has said that every bachelor 
in the world, is watched by sorr.e woman. Had 
our near hero known of this in the first stage of 
his campaign, he would probably have tried to 
locate his self appointed guardian angel. 

For courting purposes only — yes, in these days 
the new buggy too often seemed sacred and or- 
dained to that mission alone. When so conse- 
crated, a shed was built, where this first aid to 
the heart-winner reposed in peace, as a reward 
for the part it had played in getting the owner's 
recently acquired bride. The wagon, now that 
the fair one was legally cinched for life, was 
plenty good enough. 

88 



FOR COURTING PURPOSES ONLY 

The parade which some of these prairie swains 
had kept up so faithfully during the months pre- 
ceding marriage, often stopped so suddenly that 
it appeared like an attempt to show the neighbor- 
hood what a sham his social pretensions had been. 
It would have been ludicrous at times, if pathos 
of the bride's part in it, had not overshadowed 
the funny side. Not in all cases did such a state 
of affairs con:e about. Certainly not. Som^e cf 
those unions were the beginnings cf the happiest 
and best homes on earth. 

The fanrer's wife did net ask for diamonds. 
She demanded nothing in the way of luxury, tak- 
ing her place in building the new home, cheer- 
fully and uncomplainingly. But how m.any, many 
hardships came to her, which could have been 
avoided. Economy gone to seed — the last few 
pennies saved at such a terrible cost. If there 
was a difference of a cent per pound in churning 
the butter, or letting the local creamery attend 
to it, often she had it added to her duties. And 
it would have been considered almost a sacrilege 
to have considered any labor saving devices for 

89 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

her kitchen. How many women today — descend- 
ents of those mothers, but with hot and cold wa- 
ter ever ready at the faucet — let a thought go 
back to mother's limited supply in her tea kettle 
and water bucket. 

It w^as only a natural consequence, that with 
toil of the farm, some of the young brides should 
lose their bloom. Those were strenuous days, 
when the calling of agriculture had little of the 
independence and convenience enjoyed today. So 
let all honor go to the me.nory of wives and 
mothers, who sacrificed freshness of youth and 
were shorn of the attractive physical qualities 
dear to their pride and vanity. 

The criticism to be made here, concerns the 
popular standard and belief as to the wife's call- 
ing and purpose in homes of that day. The set- 
tled opinion of the community, handed down 
from the preceding generation was, that a girl in 
taking up life in a new home, must come to show 
the effects of toil else she would not prove her- 
self a worker. This would amount to little less 
than a disgrace. 

90 



FOR COURTING PURPOSES ONLY 

" I tell you that wife of Jake's is a worker," 
her father-in-law would exclaim, with a smile of 
satisfaction at thought of how her labor would 
bring in sheckels to the credit of the family name. 
As the years rolled by, and the daughter-in-law 
became a gaunt, homely creature, looking the 
part of one of the played-out farm m.achines, the 
old man figured out with contented chuckles 
what a paying investment she had been. 

Finally, it came to pass thst on a Sunday even- 
ing, Henry appeared at church with Miss Z, an 
estimable young lady well known for her ability 
as a teacher in the local schools. Community in- 
terest at sight of the pair, was naturally spiritec'. 
They were eagerly watched to see if the regulation 
half-dozen-times-in-public sign would comie; and 
when it did, the remark was current that Mary 
was probably going to "take a school of one pupil." 
For they counted her too courteous to break the 
established local precedent. 

The motive actuating this practical young man 
was, no doubt, one of matrimonious intent. Just 
what idea possessed Miss Z when accepting the 

91 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

services of Mr. B as escort, cannot be stated with 
accuracy. But after some months had passed, it 
did become certain that this attractive young lady 
was very unconcerned, and far from appearing 
anxious to wed our thrifty young Henry. On 
his part, there was good evidence of being badly 
smitten. The watchful ones before mentioned, 
declared that he wore a worried lock; and they 
frankly admitted to being puzzled. 

For this had broken all local precedents. The 
prairie maiden had accepted the attentive atten- 
tions of Mr. B and his new buggy, nearly a year. 
There were no indications of an engagement — 
no proof of any kind of results. Now don't that 
beat you? But during that period of time, a 
gradual change had come over the Nebraska 
diamond-in-the-rough. Like the dull winter land- 
scape gradually changes under the influence of 
spring, into a living and interesting thing, so our 
Henry had blossomed out, in the sunshine of a 
charming girl's influence. 

Some of the watchful ones approached him in 
divers manners, and "tactfully" tried to find out 

92 




"At one of the almost tree-covered bridges 
over Lincoln creek, he made crossing." 



page 93 



FOR COURTING PURPOSES ONLY 

as to progress. He was positively noncommital, 
but from his manner they inferred that he also 
would like to be sure of positive progress in his 
unexpectedly slow wooing. 

On those perfect early summer evenings, when 
the valley of Lincoln creek lay bathed in the soft 
light of the setting sun, with all shades of green 
on trees and corn — with golden yellow on fields 
of ripening wheat — it was time to look for the 
young farmer. At one of the almost tree- covered 
bridges over the little stream, he m.ade crossing, 
on the road leading to the hom.e of his heart's de- 
sire. Possibly an hour or so later, they might 
be seen on the streets of York, for that horse was 
a traveler from"away back." 

At last, the watchful ones noted a change in 
the young man's face. It bespoke relief and hap- 
piness, but they could get no information in words 
from him. In those days, there was no heralding 
an engagement to the world before hand; and 
actual wedding invitations came only a week or 
two before the event. It sometimes hurried the 
guests to purchase presents. 

93 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

So without public announcement, but with 
those interested all satisfied now as to the status 
of the pair, the matter stood awaiting proof— a 
wedding. More evidence came, when the watch- 
ful ones learned that Mary was not going to teach 
again the coming year. Still more, when her 
mother was seen selecting wall paper and paint, 
in early September. 

Only actual residents of Nebraska know whrt 
perfect days and nights October brings. We 
have "atmosphere" then. For a wedding present, 
this month gave the couple one of the grandest 
nights possible. The moonlight was so enthrall- 
ing, it could only have been intended for some 
happy event. Clouds and rain would have made 
much inconvenience to the guests coming over 
the country roads. 

Henry crossed the creek bridge again as the 
little valley lay weird and still under influence of 
the moon s beautiful gift. He was not in his 
new buggy on this great occasion, but in the 
family carriage with parents and brothers. It 
was just as well someone else was driving, for he 

94 



FOR COURTING PURPOSES ONLY 

was in such a daze the rules of the road might 
have bothered him. Happy beyond expression, 
yet fearing the ordeal ahead. 

When they reached the driveway leading to 
the home of his soon-to-be parents-in-law, he had 
a wild desire to leap out and hide among the trees 
or in the corn. But at the same time, he knew 
that was the last thing he would ever do. His 
desire for flight came when the house suddenly 
flashed in full view from behind the grove. It 
was ablaze with light in every room — something 
he had never seen there before. Carriages and 
buggies of the neighbors and other invited guests 
were fairly packed around the yards, and — he 
gulped hard at the thought — only one hour more 
until he must face the host. His hand went to 
the vest pocket where the ring reposed, to again 
give assurance of its safety. 

They mercifully took him in at a side door. 
He saw the familiar faces of many as he passed 
a decorated arch between two rooms, and he had 
another sinking spell at the flashing thought of 
how soon he must be standing under that flower 

95 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

covered half circle, with the eyes of all those rel- 
atives and neighbors to see his finish — at least, 
in his present state of mind, it seemed that the 
finish must surely come. 

But someone came just then and led him up 
stairs; saying a lady wanted to see him. He was 
gently thrust into a room — was he dreaming — 
with just one person in it, and that — the pretti- 
est girl he ever saw — Mary in her bridal dress. 
Woman that she was, and knowing him as she 
did, his state of mind had been fully anticipated. 
With her arms around his neck and a few words 
of cheer, she turned him into a man of valor. 
Under the arch at the appointed time he faced 
the multitude. His calmness kept him in won- 
der at himself, and also at his bride, for her 
power to calm him. 

Though every word of the ceremony came to 
him sharply, as a solemn thing, those vagaries 
in which the mind can indulge unbidden, made 
him notice things almost subconsciously. There 
sat several neighbors who looked so strange with 
collars and neckties on. He had not thought it 

96 



FOR COURTING PURPOSES ONLY 

possible for those men to submit to such adorn- 
ment, even for a wedding. He noticed small 
fry of the various families, with mouths wide 
open and breathing almost suspended, getting a 
first view of such a function. Just as you and 
I — reader — tock our first view in gaping awe. 
He saw also, the parents of the girl who was 
leaving the safe sheltering home of her girlhood 
for him. It was really a bold thing for him to 
take her from that home, and why did she con- 
sent to go away with him, and — " I pronounce 
you man and wife," ended his helpless vagaries, 
and he saw the neighbors trying to tear the new 
Mrs. Blank away from him in their eagerness to 
wish her much joy; and found himself saying 
"thank you" to congratulations. 

Henry was a new man. The one who started 
out in a new buggy to get a wife in such a mat- 
ter of fact way, had become fit material for a 
first class husband. 




97 



"1 wish I was a little rock 

A'Sitting on a hill, 
An' doing nothing all day long, 

But just a-settin' still, 

I wouldn't eat, I wouldn't drink, 

I wouldn't even wash. 
But set and set a thousand years, 

And rest myself, by gosh!" 



The police are searching 
for the miscreant who 
wrote the above lines. 



VII 

BASIN DAYS 

Tonight, as the lamp flame is adjusted for the 
evening, a melodious whistle comes floating far 
thru the still air. An Ohio river boat will make 
landing soon. By some sort of suggestion the 
tliought comes that there is a kind of family like- 
ness between frogs and steamboats. When the 
sound of the whistles die away as the river ebbs 
to the low stage, it reminds one of the silence of 
the frogs when their ponds go dry. As the riv- 
er begins to ' rise, first comes whistles of small 
packets. Then with a still deeper channel, comes 
the melodious boom of those announcing arrival 
of heavier boats, and the powerful pushers of 
the fleets of coal barges. In August, strolling 
over wide sections of its dry bed, and observing 
the rather narrow channel yet flowing, it seems 
strange to think of how soon river traffic will be 
floating high overhead. 

99 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

Along a stretch of Egyptian Nile valley where 
rain never falls, there are natives who will not 
believe that water ever falls from the sky. They 
point to chalk marks which have remained for 
centuries on old walls, as unanswerable argument 
for their belief. Let one of these natives be sud- 
denly spirited into our rrddst, when a typical 
American thunder storm is in progress. How 
would he describe it on reaching home again, 
allowing that fright did not kill him during the 
fireworks. Again, let this benighted son of the 
Nile, awake in our Platte river valley after long 
dfouth and gaze on these silent channels of sand, 
with small willow-covered islands everywhere. 
He might think this another Egypt. 

Small sons of the Nebraska pioneers were in 
many cases greatly hampered, in attempts at the 
water sports so dear to boyish hearts. In these 
early days on the plains, our horizon line was a 
simple and unadorned circle — so level was it at 
all points of the compass. To the child, wonders 
of the world outside must all be left to the im- 
agination. Monotony of the prairie gave little to 

100 



BASIN DAYS 

aid a young mind in forming comparisons with 
scenes in nature elsewhere. The small creeks, 
few in number, with some trees along the banks, 
were all that could help form ideas of forests and 
rivers far away. There was no hill to illustrate 
the theory of mountains. Sometimes when walk- 
ing up the side of a steep "draw," the boy tried 
to imagine it a canon cliff. There was no trace 
of rock in York county, so all interest in geolcgy 
died quite young. 

However, for lakes and oceans there was some- 
thing which assisted by a glowing fancy, helped 
to form a reproduction of them on a small scale. 
This something was the low spots on the prairie 
known as, "basins." With melting of winter's 
snow followed by the spring rains, these slight 
depressions became filled with water sparkling 
in the warm sunlight just as gloriously as a real 
lake. Favorable springs caused the frogs to voice 
their satisfaction quite early at times. By April, 
there was a shouting chorus of them outdoing 
all the sounds in nature, excepting the thunder 
which came with the rains. 

101 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

To escape criticism of technical persons, it 
must be explnained that we are now aware from 
knowledge gained later, how toads made most of 
the racket. But in that day we did not know 
it; so as those distant spring days come back now 
in memory, it is all frog because we were raised 
that way. Such an authority as William Gibson 
can be quoted in calling a frog chorus the sweet- 
est sound in nature. Therefore no apology is 
needed for dwelling on it for a moment, although 
some will scoff. Be that as it may, the person 
who does not feel a strange sensation of gladness 
at sound of the frog*s first spring notes, deserves 
the pity of those more fortunate. 

When warm spring days came, and the frog 
chorus was almost incessant day or night, the 
basin edge became a seashore for prairie boys. 
True, there was no sand, and the waves did not 
rise very high; but other wonders abounded on 
every hand. There was no danger of drowning 
when navigating the rafts, or water-tight boxes 
which passed for boats. A story did go around, 
telling of a very large basin several miles away, 

102 



BASIN DAYS 

in which the water was three feet deep. That 
seemed a terrible thing, and there was a great 
desire to gaze on the awful depths. 

Those temporary lakes, had their moods like 
the sea. On still sunny days, they lay shining 
like a mirror framed in green. The water, im- 
less stirred up by the cattle wading in to drink, 
was clear, tinged with the green of growing fun- 
gus. It was thickly inhabited by such monsters 
as tadpoles, water beetles and lots of darting little 
fellows, whose nam.es are too hard to spell. It 
was like a tropical sea in miniature, and the won- 
ders of its animal life interested the young natu- 
ralists, fully as much as these of a real sea could 
have done in later years. 

The interest in living things of those basins, 
did not wane. After some years, the youths be- 
came proud owners of a powerful microscope. 
Then brother Tadpcle, etherized and scientific- 
ally tied down, became a martyr to science — or 
more precisely in this case — budding curiosity. 
But with first view of blood corpuscles gliding 
Indian fashion through the forest of capillary 

103 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

paths, and joining the crowd again in the veins, 
there came a thrill at the wonder of it all which 
has never been forgotten. 

At the water's edge, cow tracks imprinted in 
the mud, stood full. Sometimes an unfortimate 
tadpole would be found swimming excitedly in 
one of these small pockets; landed there prob- 
ably by splashing of the cows as they waded in 
to drink. Duty then, was to put him back into 
the main body of water, before he perished by 
the wayside. It had been taught that frogs and 
toads were friends of the farmer, and all assist- 
ance given in protecting the spring crop of incip- 
ient croakers, would give valuable returns in the 
future. When later in the season, moist ground 
near the water was seen alive with toadlets just 
rid of their tails, it looked like the farm would 
have to be enlarged to hold them at maturity. 
But the law of survival of the fittest seemed to 
hit them pretty hard, and we had no trouble in 
feeding those who managed to grow up. 

There were other investigators around the ba- 
sins on those bright spring and early summer 

104 



BASIN DAYS 

days. Wild duck, snipe, blackbirds, crane and 
odds and ends of bird life. They came for both 
business and pleasure, judging from their actions. 
On windy days, the surface of the water was 
ruffled; and where a considerable stretch of it 
lay free from vegetable growth, small sparkling 
waves would roll. The murmur of wind thru 
thick water grass, the light lapping of water, the 
monotone of frogs and toads; calls cf birds at the 
water's edge, and of ducks bobbing serene yet 
vigilant at the basin s center — all under the spell 
of a sky filled with fleecy floating clouds, made 
up one of Nature's harmonies which will always 
linger in memory. 

Have you — prairie pioneer, now busy from 
morning to night watering the lawn of your new 
California home — forgotten the roadside ditches 
that stood full of water before our modern high- 
ways were built ? Here was another place for 
the Batrachian family to tune their voices. One 
might approach such a section of road, and hear 
a bedlam of noise ahead. At the beginning of 
the ditch, croaking died away. There was a si- 

105 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

lent spot which moved along keeping pace with 
the traveler. At the rear the racket was again 
in full blast, closing rapidly behind the victim 
like water at the stern of a boat. When safely 
beyond it all, he knew that the sea of noise was 
as tranquil as if his craft had not caused a wave 
in passing. 

It is one thing to hear a few miscellaneous 
frogs and toads chirping at random in some favor- 
ite spot, and another to hear the roar of an im- 
numbered host. In the latter case, individuality 
and the individual have passed to oblivion, and 
the steady volume of noise comes forceful and 
unwavering, like a machine made product. Pos- 
sibly "roar," is used unadvisedly; since data is 
not at hand to tell just how far it can go up the 
scale before becoming a yell. 

While our land of grassy plains was rather 
short of water on the surface, we had an unlim- 
ited supply below; and never ran short during 
dry summers as do the eastern states in many lo- 
calities. We did not know anything about going 
to a spring branch for water, but the earth could 

106 



BASIN DAYS 

be tapped anywhere with a certainty of getting 
a flow for a lifetime. 

" Boring a well, " made a time of excitement 
for the youngsters. That eighty or hundred feet 
which the augur went down to reach gravel was 
like penetrating to the very center of the earth. 
Sight of a derrick was generally first sign that a 
new home was to be founded on the prairie, so 
one accustomed to eastern ways only might think 
prospecting for oil was in progress. 

There were no "dug" wells, excepting an oc- 
casional one in the creek valleys. So we had no 
fatalities caused by walls caving in on the exca- 
vators; and nobody falling in after they were fin- 
ished. The long slim bucket fitted the "tubing" 
closely, and the creaking of wheel and wooden 
drum was heard thruout the land. If the light 
was right, there was a round bright spot at the 
bottom, about the size of a silver dollar. It was 
all a thing of mystery — this looking down into 
unknown depths of earth. 

Coming of the windmill, solved our water 
question. There was no need of a spring branch 

107 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

after that came. Laborious cranking of the drum 
was struck off the list of rural hardships. Noth- 
ing in the way of farm improvement could give 
the household generally more satisfaction than 
the new "tower" and a mill whose gaudy paint 
flashed in the sun. It was a day of triumph for 
the youngsters when the windmill agent, having 
finished assembling the wonder, loaded the tco's 
into his wagon and started back to town or his 
next anxiously awaiting customer. 

Sure there was some wrangling among neigh- 
borhood kids, as to the merits of the various 
mills owned by their respective fathers. And 
some jealousy was caused by a few towers higher 
than the others. But when one was erected over 
forty feet "taU," all petty strife was ended to unite 
against the common enemy — the boy who lived 
where the sky-scraper stood. 

In the draws " buffalo wallows, " were often 
found. We were told that the buffalo bunched 
in fly-time, and the stamping of their hoofs in 
the moist earth, made depressions which now 
stood full of water left by the temporary stream 

108 



BASIN DAYS 

coursing there after rains. Believe this or not, 
as you see fit. 

During summer they were scenes of hilarious 
sport, fulfilling the mission of " The old swim- 
min hole." M^st bathers might have preferred 
more sanitary conditions. But the warm, stag- 
nant pools splashed just as well as cleaner water 
could have done; and the secluded location gave 
entire freedom to the movements. That was — 
bathing costumes were utterly discarded. 

Running down the side of the draw and jump- 
ing in, created a concussion which stunned little 
fishes and left them floating on the surface. The 
bathers revived these in a bucket, and took the 
victims home. Here imprisoned in improvised 
aquariums, they lived about twenty-four hours 
on an average. Great indignation was caused, 
when the home folks told us that it was not the 
concussion of our violent impact with the water 
which stunned the fish. They claimed it was 
because we were so dirty. 




109 



VIII 
SIGHTS & SOUNDS OF YESTERDAY 

An army of wild geese hundreds in number, 
turns from its regular line of aerial march; wheels 
in majestic circles, lower and lower. With bro- 
ken ranks, much chattering and flapping of the 
wings, they alight in a field. It looks like solid 
acres of geese. 

There is excitement in nearby farmhouses, for 
roast goose is not to be despised. Feather beds 
and pillows are needed in the household. The 
birds have seen to it that their feeding ground 
is in the clear, with little chance of ambuscade. 
Level fields and prairie are on all sides. 

Half a mile away, a horse starts toward the 
feeding flock. His movements seem rather con- 
strained and peculiar, judging from the easy gait 
of an animal left to his own devices. As he 
nears the flock, it can be noticed that his line of 

111 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

travel will pass a little to one side of the geese. 
When less than an hundred yards from them— 
Horrors ! — the horse was loaded. 

Two shots ring out, and as the mass of geese 
rises hurriedly, two more are fired by the man 
concealed at the side of the horse. Over the 
fields come the youngsters from the house, to 
help carry in the game. Then roast gocse is en 
the menu for a week. It will pall on the appetite 
before the finish. 

Either a horse or cow would answer for the 
moving blind to screen the hunter's approach, if 
the animal was tractable, and could be induced 
to walk at its master's side. The thing most 
provocative of profanity, in days when the fields 
of the prairie were feeding grounds for myriads 
of wild geese during the migrating season, was 
the horse or cow, trained for the stalking, but 
who queered the deal when just out of shot gun 
range by whirling around and exposing the fran- 
tic man to view of the birds. In such a case, 
only the value of the animal kept it from being 
killed and buried right there. 

112 



SIGHTS & SOUNDS OF YESTERDAY 

Those days, now gone forever, when the first 
clarion call of the wild goose on its journey north- 
ward over the plains of Nebraska, to the lakes 
where the broods were reared, gave a thrill to 
those tired of the long winter and eagerly watch- 
ing for signs of spring. When in the fall the 
flocks passed southward, it gave no thrill, for 
we knew that in the wake of those long, flying 
wedges, with each unit in the line holding its 
place so perfectly. Winter was following at his 
own sweet pleasure. 

To lie in bed at night and hear first, the faint 
and far away notes of an approaching squadron, 
gradually increasing in distinctness and volume 
as it came nearer. Loud chattering and honking 
as the travelers passed overhead. Then gradual 
dying away in the distance, and finally to find 
yourself straining the ears to get a last, faint honk. 
It wove a queer spell — that unseen passing in the 
night, of those creatures obeying the mysterious 
migrating command. 

The wild ducks obeyed it also — untold num- 
bers of them, but they wasted little breath in 

113 



I 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

publishing the fact to the natives, as they swift- 
ly passed over with no more than the sound of 
wings to herald their flight. The thought comes 
of spring days, hidden in a cornstalk " blind " at 
the edge of a basin, with a bunch of more or less 
realistic "decoys" bobbing on the shallow water, 
the hunter scanned the southern sky for a line of 
ducks. Then he anxiously watched to see wheth- 
er or not they would alight to feed with his wood- 
en imitations. These stoical w^ooden ducks were 
trained to take misplaced charges of shot without 
a murmur. For sooner or later, some excitable 
strolling hunter would let drive, and then slink 
out of sight when the mistake dawned on his 
poor, crazed brain. 

In any review of sights and sounds of yesterday 
on our Nebraska prairie, the blackbird must be 
given prominent place, for he was always among 
those present. And it is a pleasure to know he 
is there yet, happy as ever. 

Concerning them, the Encyclopaedia Britan- 
nica says. — "The blackbird is of a shy and rest- 
less disposition, courting concealment, and rarely 

114 



SIGHTS & SOUNDS OF YESTERDAY 

seen in flocks, or otherwise than singly or in 
pairs, etc." 

The wires are crossed somewhere. This usu- 
ally reliable authority has made either a bad tan- 
gle in characterization, or the English bird is 
really quite different, don't you know. Only 
one attribute fits our own bird — "restless disposi- 
tion. " The allegation of his shyness, courting 
concealment, aversion to flocking— well, it aint 
him noway. A host of witnesses could be drawn 
from the farms, to testify as to the fallicy of the 
accusations. 

" Four and twenty blackbirds cooked in a pie." 
Possibly the great number of hunters looking for 
pie material in England, gave the bird reason to 
act differently on that side of the water. He was 
not a hunter's target in the prairie states. Dur- 
ing long days in the fields, flocks of them became 
companions of the farmer. Whenever the soil 
was being stirred, the bird was always on hand; 
and it was goodbye for all worms turned out in 
the new furrow. The diversion of looking back 
from the plow at that bobbing line of trim black 

115 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

coats, fairly flashing in the sun, was a pleasure 
when monotony made time hang heavily. 

" Singly or in pairs, " indeed. If ever birds 
seemed to enjoy flocking, these birds did. What 
about those grand concerts which were held in 
the Cottonwood groves, where hundreds sat on 
the swaying branches, each adding voice to the 
swelling — well, probably it was not harmony in 
the strict sense of the word; but each bird's note 
seemed to tell of contentment in the sunshine of 
prairie summer. 

In the far distant yesterdays, there was always 
something impressive in the sight of lumber piles 
and other building materials, lying on the build- 
ing spot of a quarter section of raw prairie, ready 
to be fashioned into a new home. It seemed en- 
tirely different from a place "in the clearing," 
such as many of the settlers had known east of 
the Mississippi in youth. 

Then came breaking of sod, and a piece of the 
quarter lay black and smooth, excepting kinks 
here and there. They were unsightly as far as 
neatness of the plowed tract was concerned. It 

116 



SIGHTS & SOUNDS OF YESTERDAY 

was held by some, that the more kinky and dis- 
orderly new furrows lay, the better. Quick rot- 
ting of severed grass roots was desired. Torn 
and mangled sod helped. But it was considered 
an accomplishment, if one could make the black 
ribbon turn over and lie flat as it left the mould 
board of the plow. 

The kinks looked like miniature wigwams open 
on one side, when seen at a little distance. Jack 
rabbits evidently considered them to be such, as 
they used them frequently for hiding places or 
shelter. The prairie chickens looked on them 
with favor, but the striped ground squirrel view- 
ed this encroachment with alarm. When the 
sod was ready for corn planting, however, he 
had the time of his life digging up seed. 

Speaking of Jack rabbits — that is a reminder 
of how they assisted the prairie hens in hatching 
their eggs, and caring for young broods. Hun- 
ters with bird-dogs, were hot on the trail of the 
hens. Nests were left, if the mother birds were 
killed during the hatching season. Then the in- 
telligence of this rabbit, as well as his noble na- 

117 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

ture was strikingly shown. He was always alert 
for deserted nests of eggs. When a tragedy of 
that kind happened, Mr. Rabbit was Johnny-on- 
the-spot. He settled right down on the eggs and 
kept them warm until they hatched; then care- 
fully watched and protected the young chicks un- 
til they could fly. 

When the covey flew in a bunch over the stub- 
ble fields, this foster-father, or mother, as you 
like it, — this case might become complicated if 
the sex of the rabbit is considered,— but we'll 
drop all that. This adopted parent ran along be- 
neath the covey, and when the birds alighted in 
a Cottonwood tree, this long-eared chaperone 
climbed the trunk and sat with themi. But the 
ludicrous climax came, v/hen he attempted to 
give the call of the mother hen — what's that ? 
Certainly we don't believe it. 

Seriously though, the jack rabbit did help us 
to judge the mental calibre of our dogs in those 
days. The wise ones did not waste energy chas- 
ing them, while the foolish spent the running 
period of thier lives at it. To see a dog frantic- 

118 



SIGHTS & SOUNDS OF YESTERDAY 

ally hoofing it after a jack rabbit, yelping at every 
step — dog yelping, not the rabbit — proved him 
to be either mentally deficient, or a newcomer 
in the region. 

But to continue about breaking prairie. It 
was a clean, clear-cut job; one of the most pleas- 
ant on the new farm. There Vv^as always the 
feeling, which, though hard to describe, was to 
the effect that one here commenced away back 
where nature had left off; having prepared us a 
thing which it had not in all lands left ready for 
man— a soil that might be put in crop shape 
without great labor. 

This reflection might not come to a later gen- 
eration, raised in the west. But to those reared 
in lands of timber and rock, where the toil of 
clearing had put the droop on many a strong pair 
of shoulders — the taking of these level and unob- 
structed Nebraska acres direct from nature, all 
ready for the plow, was something which could 
not pass as mere matter of fact. 

The appreciation was such, that no matter 
how discontented the pioneer became, hs stuck 

119 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

to the job. The per cent who went back to the 
old states, was too small for calculation. Some 
had come overland in the far-famed prairie 
schooner ar that. 

The day of this vehicle is so long gone that 
children of the new-old land, hear of it as a mat- 
ter of history. If one passes now, the chances 
are that a trader in third rate horses is looking 
for suckers along the way. 

The white-covered wagon s significance and 
importance in pioneer days is forgotten. But in 
their time, they carried the nucleus of untold 
numbers of new homes, where prosperity was 
to come after years of toil, isolation and discour- 
agement. As the eastern counties became set- 
tled, with consequent increase of land values, 
the wagons with white covers over their bows 
passed on thru to the area further west yet un- 
broken. At the time, it seemed alright. Those 
who journeyed thus were only repeating methods 
of some of our county's settlers a few years be- 
fore. The cheap lands these later homeseekers 
coveted, proved to be beyond the region of suff i- 

120 




"At the stackyard, signs of three crops told 
of a continuous performance in the raising of 
wheat. The straw piles of last year's crop — 
the new stacks just built, and plowing for a 
sowing soon to coTie." 



page 1 78 



SIGHTS & SOUNDS OF YESTERDAY 

cient rainfall. After a few years of struggle, the 
bitter truth was realized. The detailed history 
of some of those abandoned places on the semi- 
arid stretches, would make as sad tragedies as 
ever were written. 

A solitary grave here and there, where no 
community cemetery had been established, spoke 
mutely of the distance from medical aid, or del- 
icacies for the sick one. It spoke also of the 
loneliness and desolation in the hour of trial, 
when old friends and scenes seemed so far away. 
Sometimes after the fight against such heavy odds 
had been given up, and the family was back in 
a more promising location, the bones of the one 
who winked out on the dry and sandy homestead 
were brought back to rest near the living. The 
thought of that solitary grave away out there un- 
der the quiet stars, had been too disagreeable. 
While the dead did not care, it spoke volumes 
for the tie which binds human hearts. Today, 
how many of those who view the struggling edges 
of settlement in dry portions of the west, give a 
thought to the lives in these homes ? 

121 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

It is a wonderful thing — that persistence of the 
mind in bringing up everything excepting facts 
bearing on the subject at hand. The more you 
try to get away from a foolish suggestion, the 
stronger it gets. When all effort goes to bring 
back in memory, sights and sounds of yesterday, 
why is it that such an outlandish pair of words 
as — "Agricultural Paint," crowds out more lofty 
thoughts? Not so bad for the theme at hand 
after all, however. That paint was a sight, and 
loud enough to miake a sound. 

It certainly made a bright spot on the farm 
landscape, when a new corn planter, binder or 
other rural instrument was brought home. The 
splendors of A. P. with which it was covered 
could not be outdone — for a week or two. A 
heavy dew would dull the lustre of it to a per- 
ceptible extent, and after a few weeks of scorch- 
ing sun it peeled off like the skin from frozen 
ears in winter time. The man who invented our 
alleged agricultural paint, is unsung and unhung 
— much pity for the latter. But the stuff was 
some gorgeous as one gazed at the en semble of 

122 



SIGHTS & SOUNDS OF YESTERDAY 

the implement dealer's collection in the show- 
room; and it has given tone to state and county 
fairs for many years. At times, it covered up a 
multitude of sins also. A pine tongue, or pair 
of double-trees of the same material, looked just 
as strong under the influence of said A. P. as if 
made of strongest oak. 

An epidemic of bright red barn paint ran its 
course in the community once. It was surely a 
gay looking neighborhood for a little while. But 
when the bloom was gone, those barns looked 
like a relapse. The agent never came back to 
sell a second order of A. P. 

The brilliant hues of a new wagon were of a 
more lasting quality. Probably they were high 
grade A. P. This vehicle seemed a veritable 
chariot on four wheels, as the implement dealer 
greased it up for the journey; and all the neigh- 
bors took notice as the owner proudly wended 
his way homeward. But for delicacy and refine- 
ment, the new buggy held all honors. It was a 
sign that someone was feeling prosperous, or that 
a young man was entering society. 

123 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

The sounds of yesterday on the prairie — what 
a host of them. But just now for some reason, 
there comes with the silence broken by the hum- 
ming of the lamp's flame, the sound of the first 
raindrops on the corn leaves, after a narrow es- 
cape from ruin of the crop by dry weather. That 
misery of suspense and discomfort of threatened 
drouth, drawing nearer each day. 

To know that all of your duty toward the grow- 
ing crop has been done, and to realize that na- 
ture's inscrutable plan holds the measure of your 
wealth for the year. To know that the storm 
period with its dangers to rows of tall, waving 
stalks, has all been passed. Then to watch the 
skies of hot and dry days follow in monotonous 
succession, when clouds of hope formed in the 
afternoon, only to fade at sunset. 

One night when it seemed that the last chance 
was gone, the wind began to tire of its steady 
drive from the south. By bedtime, all was as 
calm as motionless leaves could make it. The 
sky had clouded over as gradually and evenly as 
a dissolving view on a picture screen. Then to 

124 



SIGHTS & SOUNDS OF YESTERDAY 

many whose ears were fairly strained to catch it, 
came the faintest possible murmur — the delicate 
patter of scattering raindrops on the corn leaves, 
waiting with burning thirst. 

Agonizing suspense, — to know whether or not 
it was but a splash from a sky which might soon 
be showing stars, and none cared to see them 
that night. The patter of drops increased, and 
soon it was a strong healthy sound of falling rain 
which abated not. The heavens were open at 
last. As he lay on his bed, the tired tiller of the 
soil listened to the downpour on the shingled 
roof, and he gave a huge sigh of relief, as it 
lulled him to sleep. 

The days which followed — what is more sat- 
isfying, if the field is yours, at least, than to 
watch those shoots breaking out. The silk and 
tassel — the young ears fattening day after day — 
until under their own weight they break down 
and hang, ripening into hardness. 

There is more of the personal in an acquaint- 
ance with a field of corn. The stalks have an 
individuality unlike those of the small grains. One 

125 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

might come to notice certain ears and watch the 
gradual development, and finally hang them on 
the wall as trophies of a year. 

Another familiar sound from distant days, is 
the melodious chirp of our human croaker, who 
gave his call after the first spring rain. This 
peculiar and interesting creature was not found 
in basins with the frogs. Usually, his song came 
from local newspaper offices — " A good crop of 
small grain is now assured. " This most trustful 
and innocent creature of nature's lower kingdom 
was never able to learn that a rain, or even sev- 
eral of them after the crops were growing, could 
easily be blotted out by wind and sun of a dry 
period, until harvest time gave but a series of 
sighs for what might have been. 

A trolley car, passing and repassing with some- 
thing defective about its motor gearing, has been 
making sounds which suggested a thing long ob- 
solete — the old circle sweep, tumbling- rod driven 
threshing machine. That merciless grind of the 
" horse power," with tired, sweating teams fol- 
lowing the tramped and worn circle. 

126 



SIGHTS & SOUNDS OF YESTERDAY 

Threshing day was one of the few occasions of 
the year, when kids did not have to be called 
twice or more in the morning. They must be 
up in time to see the separator "set" at the stacks^ 
and the horses hitched to the " power." 

With the coming of the first "steamier" — por- 
table ones drawn from place to place by teams — 
there was a new and increased excitement for 
boys. To see the engineer feed that wonderful 
little fire-box, and get up steam., gave a real thrill. 
When "traction" engines came, and pulled them- 
selves and the entire outfit from job to job, it 
seemed that wonderful strides in invention were 
being made. 

To be the "feeder" of the separator, and spread 
those bundles of wheat into the cylinders — that 
was deemed a high honor by the boys. They 
aspired to grow up and become feeders, as the 
youths along the river aspire to be pilots of the 
steamboats. In fact, the entire crew of four men 
who "went" with the outfit, seemed to lead won- 
derful lives. Think of it ! Putting up at a dif- 
ferent house nearly every day — getting all the 

127 



UNDER THE B^EROSENE LAMP 

choice grub — a perfect ruin of chicken feathers 
in their wake. 

But that straw pile! It took away nearly all 
the pleasure of threshing day. How the endless 
stream of chaffy dusty stuff, did boil up and over 
the top of the slatted carrier. The "blow" stack- 
er Vv^asn't even dreamed of then. Like convicts, 
those assigned to stacking by an unkind fate, took 
their places and prepared to do battle; coming 
down at last perspiring and dust covered. What 
a Godsend it was when the machine broke down 
for a few minutes, giving opportunity to rest on 
the soft bed. Some of the community threshing 
outfits were in disrepute with the small fry, be- 
cause they hardly ever broke down. 

Again it comes — the rustling sound of drying 
corn leaves, waving in the cool breeze after first 
frosts of early fall — that time of rest and relaxa- 
tion for man, beast, and even soil of the fields. 
True, we might be working along, but a sense 
of restfulness from the strain of harvest time was 
there. Even the fields felt the spell; for the aft- 
ermath of green which soon hid the fading yellow 

128 



SIGHTS & SOUNDS OF YESTERDAY 

and brown of the stubble, was like a short play 
period for the soil between crops. But when 
after a wet harvest, it stood high and luxuriant, 
half hiding the discolored and sprouting shocks, 
the general appearance of the field suggested noth- 
ing playful to the owner. 

On these early fall mornings, when the sun's 
rays felt just a little comfortable after chill of the 
night; and big sparkling globules of frost stood 
on the grasses and weeds — came the exhileration 
of breathing deep the scent of drying corn, and 
watching the ears loosen their husks. He who 
cannot find inspiration in a stroll over the fields 
of fair Nebraska on a morning like that, had best 
arise, bow low to confess his shame — then pass 
out and commune with himself, to find out what 
is the matter with his soul. 




129 



IX 

OUR STREAMS AND VALLEYS 

Sometimes there are prophets, who, as long 
as they keep in their proper spheres, may be 
shining lights or fountains of knowledge to us les- 
ser ones of the common herd; but let them get 
beyond their range, and the prognostic talent be- 
comes as sounding brass. Even as late as 1858, 
only three years before the Civil war began, one 
of our ponderous monthly magazines which yet 
remains among the best — when it keeps in its 
proper place — published an article from which 
the following paragraph is taken. 

"The people of the United States have reached 
their inland western frontier, and the banks of 
the Missouri river are the shores at the termina- 
tion of a vast ocean desert over one thousand 
miles in breadth, which it is proposed to travel, 
if at all, by caravans of camels, and which inter- 
pose a final barrier to the establishment of large 
communities, agricultural, commercial, or even 
pastoral." 

131 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

To stand today at the great railway depots in 
Omaha or Kansas City, and see the immense 
trains arriving from this "vast ocean desert," re- 
minds one that the "caravans of camels," come 
there only with the circus, when it makes the 
annual tour with a mile of cars. 

Why did the people of eastern states, persist 
so long in judging the prairie region west of the 
Missouri river by the standard of a desert ? Even 
today, predjudice has not entirely disappeared. 
After a number of years in the Ohio valley, the 
author has discovered that Nebraska does not ex- 
ist as far as the majority of the natives are con- 
cerned. All they ever heard about it, was that 
William J. Bryan lived at Lincoln. The state is 
secure with them in its reputation as the home 
of the great Commoner. They will never find 
out that he transferred his citizenship to Florida. 
Yes, we are off the map back there. 

In the matter of antiquities, fifty years does 
not amount to much; but in the history of the 
plains, that length of time has been an age. The 
settlers, commencing with a clean slate and new 

132 



OUR STREAMS AND VALLEYS 

materials, have built and accomplished much 
which the east could copy to advantage. 

Julian Street said in, "Abroad At Home," that 
the average of the student body in the Univer- 
sity of Kansas, was higher than that of eastern 
colleges. The Rhodes Scholarship to Oxford 
for 1921 was won by a Nebraska University boy 
— a resident of our own York. 

"Across the Missouri, " To many living no 
farther east than Chicago, that phrase yet seerr^s 
to savor of the far west. Since the prophet of 
the fifties dubbed it the western boundary of civ- 
ilization, it has been bridged in many places to 
carry a large traffic to and from said desert. The 
traveler, getting first sight of "The Big Muddy," 
from a car window as the train crosses the bridge, 
gets a view varying greatly with the time of year 
or even day. 

By moonlight, with the high bluffs rising from 
the water's edge in forbidding blackness, made 
intense by contrast with the brightly lighted sky 
beyond their tops, and the swirling water flash- 
ing back the mysterious glow of the night, it all 

133 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

combines to make an impressive time of entry 
for a new traveler in the land. 

But if he had made the crossing on some late 
summer or early fall day, when the river was at 
low tide — with every old snag and bar out taking 
the annual sun bath — the stranger might have 
been less impressed. Again, he might cross in 
broad daylight during a big rise, and get a view 
well worth remembering. 

The Missouri river valley as seen from the top 
of a high bluff, has charms of its own. Many 
miles of cotton wood-fringed "bottoms," with the 
winding channels shining like broad ribbons — 
all ending with a hazy vista of farms and trees in 
the far distance — it equals anything on the con- 
tinent for "practical" beauty. 

Admiration for the stream is tempered some- 
what in the same way one might feel when look- 
ing at a handsome criminal. For that swirling, 
silt-laden flood is continually perpetrating high 
jinks on the valley settlers and their farms — even 
undermining and tearing down high bluffs; but 
any stream with an average fall of eighteen inches 

134 



OUR STREAMS AND VALLEYS 

per mile thru such a resistless soil, would be an 
unruly member. 

Knowledge of the Missouri's great length helps 
to give it dignity. Navigable for over two thou- 
sand miles, it was once a highway. To look at 
its solitude of waters now, makes the day of its 
importance as a means of navigation to develop 
the great northwest, seems but a dream. The 
wounded from the battlefields near where Custer 
and his men met their fate, were brought home 
by the long journey down this stream. Then, a 
great number of packet steamers and no railroads. 
Now, almost a complete reversal of conditions, 
with the future debatable. 

The mouth of the Missouri— a lapping, surg- 
ing line resembling the wake of a steamer, as it 
joins its flood with that of the Mississippi; and 
is impressive when viewed from a boat's deck. 
What a long way from this uniting place of the 
great waters, to the source of either — especially 
to that of the one which forms the "inland west- 
ern frontier." Restless and shifting thru all its 
course, force of habit keeps continuous the pro- 

135 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

cess to the end. In the last fifty years, the loca- 
tion of the mouth has changed several miles; and 
long "made" flats covered with cottonwoods, are 
evidence as to where the stream discharged its 
flood in times past. Taking both the Missouri 
and the Mississippi from their junction point to 
source, it would be hard to find two American 
rivers whose waters unite, and yet have such dif- 
ferent dispositions and characters. 

But we have wandered with the current, far 
down stream — away from the east boundary line 
of Nebraska, whose rivers and valleys have a 
more personal interest. So back again up the 
swirling and muddy waterway, to the mouth of 
our famous, extremely broad, shallow and sandy 
Platte; which, although being a river, almost es- 
capes that responsibility. 

With a length of twelve hundred miles, it is a 
river when it has the water. But when the bed 
lies dry and shining under the August sun, the 
wide, level series of sandy channels with their 
pretty little islands, make it look like an unful- 
filled contract. In June, when all the breadth 

136 



OUR STREAMS AND VALLEYS 

of valley is a mat of green, and the channels run 
full, the scene is one to remember as being equal 
to others far more famed. 

While shallow, it has a rapid current; and 
quicksands make fording rather a dangerous prop- 
osition. When it is practically dry, there comes 
the curious spectacle of small streams within a 
river. Narrow interlocking channels, cut down 
several feet below the general level of the river 
bottom, carry steady streams of perfectly clear 
water coming from the underflow. The effect 
is an odd one, and gives the idea that a series of 
waterways are all occupying the same territory. 
The fact that the Platte frequently has less water 
at the mouth than far upstream, puzzles some of 
the easterners when informed of the fact. 

Though it be true that all water is wet, and 
all rivers run down hill — there is yet a great va- 
riety of sensations and impressions gained, when 
first sight comes of renowned streams. Their 
general appearance may be quite similar, but an 
influence comes — brought about by thought of 
the history of regions thru which they pass, and 

137 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

affecting the beholder in a strange way. Just a 
few examples from different parts of our country, 
to illustrate the idea. 

In old Concord, a view of the little river bear- 
ing the same name, weaves in with the literary 
traditions of the town a glamour which puts the 
sluggish current in keeping with the neighbor- 
hood. Hawthorne's descriptive power cannot 
be better appreciated than by taking a stroll in 
the locality of the Battle Bridge, and then read- 
ing the description of it in the charming sketch, 
"Mosses From An Old Manse." 

In the lower valley of the Hudson, especially 
where Ichabod Crane met his fate in adventure 
with the headless horseman, something of the 
spell induced by Irving's tales of the river is wov- 
en into impressions one gets. And when the 
tide is coming in, it gives chance for argument 
as to whether rivers do always run down hill. 
For the stately Hudson — really occupying but a 
crack on the surface of the earth — barely gets by 
in the river class at all. But it looks like one, 
and a beautiful one at that. 

138 



OUR STREAMS AND VALLEYS 

And as hinted at before, in a westward cross- 
ing of the Mississippi or Missouri, many eastern 
folks get the idea that they are crossing a boun- 
dary Hne into something — sometimes the end of 
the earth. In the far west, excitement comes to 
tourists all along the train when word is passed 
that the Colorado is just ahead. After the long 
ride thru nearly arid country, the appetite gets 
strong for sight of a stream of any kind. The 
"atmosphere" of the desert, and thought of the 
long, winding miles the river makes in the soli- 
tude of the Grand Canyon, combine to give the 
ones seeing it for the first time, impressions far 
different from those of other streams. 

A river whose channel is stable and practically 
unchanging, seems more like a settled institution. 
It is general practice to speak of the "banks" of 
small streams, but with such as the Ohio or the 
Mississippi, it usually becomes "shores." And 
these, especially of the Ohio, are certainly very 
fickle ones. Those of this week, may be far be- 
low or above those of last week. There is always 
interest in watching those constantly changing 

139 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

shore lines as the river rises and falls. To see 
familiar bars, snags and other landmarks gradu- 
ally disappear as the water rises, and see them 
again come in sight, point by point as the stream 
subsides a little more each day, always presents 
some novelty. 

Once more we have wandered, and must get 
back to the mouth of the Platte. In the region 
of Louisville, the bluffs with their rock quarries 
help make a setting for this peculiar stream with 
its quiet, shifting channels of sand. 

Here, when June skies come, with beautiful 
cloud decorations — there are days w^hen the chan- 
nels are as blue as the sky above; and the green 
of willow, Cottonwood, and many kinds of shrub 
and grass — changing in tint as the cloud shadows 
drift across the valley from bluff to bluff — make 
a picture as dream-like and alluring, as ever did 
Hudson at Tarry town. But — the people haven't 
found it out yet. And there are nights under 
the brilliant moon — with frogs and crickets to 
give emphasis to the otherwise perfect stillness, 
the scene is as enthralling as the witching hour 

140 



OUR STREAMS AND VALLEYS 

on the Tappan Zee in Irving's time. But — we 
are sorry to add — some Nebaska people are going 
to scoff when they read this. 

Since the Platte has no waterfalls, is not nav- 
igable, and passes thru a valley of peaceful, pas- 
toral nature — those who demand excitement for 
their daily tonic, might call it the river of silence. 
When the channels go dry above the mouth of 
the Loup, and the Platte valley lays scorching in 
sun of a summer drouth — we would have to ad- 
mit the correctness of such a name. Even fair 
California has its seasons when the inhabitants 
are less prone to sound its praises, and our retir- 
ed prairie pioneers dwelling there, figure out 
how much they were stung on that very orna- 
mental bungalow, and wish they were back in 
old Nebraska — until next winter. 

The silence of the Platte may at times be only 
the sign that the waters are in active service far 
up stream — irrigating the fertile valley. For to- 
day, it is productive of so great an amount of live 
stock and all kinds of farm products, that a little 
empire might be fed from it. 

141 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

It is up to some statistical organization, to fig- 
ure out how much shotgun ammunition has been 
wasted in the Platte valley during the last quar- 
ter of a century or more. Since there are com- 
putations relative to how many shots are required 
to kill a man in battle, it might be that an esti- 
mate could arrive approximately at the number 
of shots fired to kill a wild duck or goose. 

What an interesting subject on which to spec- 
ulate. How we long for space to do it justice. 
Strange it is that the question has not been up 
to public notice before this. Just consider it for 
a few moments. 

Here is the long stretch of valley, extending 
in winding curves thru the entire length of the 
state. The channels with so many little islands, 
make ideal amduscades for the hunter. The mi- 
grating season is at hand. Honking of the wild 
geese and whirring of wild duck, stirs the blood 
of prairie Nimrods for many miles away on each 
side of the river. With wagons packed for the 
slaughter, they close in on the valley — prepare 
hiding places and secrete themselves, with decoys 

142 



«l 




c 



3 
UL 



-I DO 
O 



O 



> ^ 



OUR STREAMS AND VALLEYS 

more or less ghastly and petrified looking, placed 
at proper distance from the blinds. Bombard- 
ment begins. 

Some of those web-footed birds must have been 
endowed with charmed lives, to escape all that 
booming clatter of shot. It was just like fishing 
— certain hunters went home with game, while 
others returned without it. And the tales they 
told of wonderful shots ! Ananias would have 
wept in sheer jealousy to hear them. 

Many scenes in other river valleys of Nebraska 
are deserving of far more credit than allowed up 
to date. Along the Loup — at Fullerton, for one 
illustration. A view from the hills west of the 
city, is one really inspiring — not for rugged or 
startling features, but for the wealth of rich fields, 
and pastures, with comfortable homes nestling 
in sheltering groves. 

And another — the valley of the Blue — so heav- 
ily timbered near the water, along the greater 
part of its length, that the stream is almost com- 
pletely hidden when viewed from the upland at 
the valley's rim. At Crete, Beatrice, and in the 

143 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

vicinity of Wymore, there are many spots with 
such charms that hosts of admirers could be de- 
pended on for testimony if necessary. 

The m.ain hindrance to pubHcity for prairie 
scenes, is inability of the camera to reproduce 
delicate detail which makes the chief charm of a 
view in our valleys, or across the level uplands. 
Many amateur photographers, and some profes- 
sionals, have tried — and then sighed; far when 
the camera attempts distance on the prairie, the 
result looks like solitude and desolation. 

It can make a bird's-eye view of our fertile and 
beautiful Blue valley, look about as inspiring as 
an Arizona desert. Some worthless hillside farm 
in New England, which would not raise turnips, 
looks like a Garden of Eden — compared to a high 
priced prairie farm, when photographs of each 
are put on exhibition together. 



144 



X 

OLD DAYS IN A PRAIRIE TOWN 

Readers may criticise from time to time, lack 
of systematic arrangement in these chapters; but 
just think it over, and ask yourself this question: 
Do my recollections of a long gone past, come in 
an orderly procession, when I sit down for an 
evening of quiet seclusion, and happen to be re- 
minded by something or other of youthful days ? 
Am I not lead here and there by suggestions, in 
ways for which I am not responsible ? 

Things are getting worse right along, and the 
reader must peruse this chapter at his or her own 
risk. For now, at this thought of old days in a 
prairie town, we feel that the kerosene lamp is 
going to take us back to its own — where it ruled 
supreme. They have electric lights and gasoline 
mantle lamps there at present, but in the days 
of which we write, kerosene was an essential to 
social life of the community. 

145 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

We will consider the coming of the railroad 
to be the dividing line between frontier life and 
real community settlement, free from dangers 
known to the generation now gone to rest. The 
prairie of fifty years ago had a share of loneliness 
and privation, but there was little of the physi- 
cal danger known to those who had comie a few 
years before. All difficulties with the noble red 
men in our territory had been settled, and he 
was only a tradition to us. If we found a few 
arrow heads now and then, they seemed to the 
youngsters but relics of a prehistoric race. Such 
was our conception of the dozen years or so, that 
had elapsed since the troublesome Indian had 
been driven out of Kansas and the similar terri- 
tories adjoining. 

To those raised in the old states, where the 
establishment of new towns has long been a lost 
art, the extension of a line of railroad through 
an unsettled territory was an interesting process. 
Not even an old time crossroads store with a 
church nearby, could the railroad company take 
for a nucleus of a new town. Such things gave 

146 



OLD DAYS IN A PRAIRIE TOWN 

them no concern. They never swerved their 
line an inch from the path of least resistance as 
marked out by the engineers and surveyors. It 
was the great future which was always kept in 
view; and even to this day they straighten lines 
and leave small towns stranded high and dry, 
figuratively speaking. 

So when the row of pine stakes was driven 
for many miles over the prairie, and the town- 
sites laid out with an average distance of eight 
miles between, the settlers knew just how the 
future stood in the matter of railway transporta- 
tion, and how far they were going to be from 
town — an important thing. 

A description of one of these towns — filled in 
with such regularity between the county seats — 
would picture all of them. The railroad com- 
pany established a sidetrack, yards and shute for 
loading livestock, and the standard pattern of 
little red depot, designed by some master archi- 
tect about 1865, and carefully adhered to for over 
forty years. They also issued orders that all grain 
elevators to be erected along the line match that 

147 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

depot in color. Their duty to the public in the 
new villages ended with this, and they were par- 
ticular in keeping within the contract's terms. 
The railroad people were aware that whatever 
benefit might come to them from the develop- 
m^ent of the country within the territory of the 
line, would be theirs without further effort. 
Thus they were named "Soulless corporations," 
although only following the way of human nature 
in independent positions. 

Private enterprise quickly built a general store, 
in which was housed the local representative of 
the government — the postmaster — who distribut- 
ed the cheese and sugar as well as the mail. All 
too soon another general store arrived, and per- 
haps another. Thereby the needs of the none 
too populous community was supplied by several 
establishments, all scratching to make a living. 

One concern by receiving all the business, thus 
enabling it to carry a better and more extended 
line, would have served the purpose better; but 
the curious ways of human nature prevented it. 
Growth and prosperity of the village could only 

148 



OLD DAYS IN A PRAIRIE TOWN 

be judged by the filling of vacant lots along that 
main street — just as a city a thousand times larger 
measures its prosperity today. 

In the beginning, the dozen or two of frame 
buildings near the red depot were shadeless in 
summer sun, and unsheltered from winter storm. 
Today, these towns half hidden in trees shading 
streets with modern homes, are a sharp remind- 
er of time's swift flight. While there might be 
a long tale to tell of times during the growth of 
our state's small towns, we pass up on everything 
of formal and historical nature. 

Whimsical memories of odds and ends come, 
and shall be put on record. In some way, men- 
tion of shadeless condition in summer, has been 
a reminder of the sun's darkening effect on the 
human skin — especially that of lads just begin- 
ning to cast admiring glances at a sex alleged to 
be more deadly than the male. 

Sunburn was the country boy's cross. Though 
he did not have to bear it alone, little comfort 
came to him from knowing that his companions 
had also the disgrace of dark tanned hands and 

149 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

faces during the long season from early planting 
to final harvest. Winter brought a bleaching 
process of its own, so by Christmas the rural 
beau could attend social festivities and have no 
handicap against the young drug clerk who never 
went out in the summer sun. Yes, winter was 
certainly a friend to the country bey, for it put 
him in trim to be an equal competitor for the 
hearts of the fair sex, and gave ease and poise 
at parties or other social functions. 

An African traveler might return from his 
conquest of discovery in the burning tropic sun, 
and be a hero with a face like a bronze doorknob. 
But there was no heralding brass band to wel- 
come the prairie lad, when he went to town 
with bronzed face acquired in the furrow behind 
the plow. Thus each spring the strong south 
winds left him resigned to his fate for the season. 
Some may read and smile, thinking this an idle 
pleasantry; but I shall put. Sunburn, down as 
reason number twenty-three, in an inspiring tale 
entitled, " Why boys left the farm." Times have 
changed some, however; and had there been a 

150 



OLD DAYS IN A PRAIRIE TOWN 

prophet at hand to tell of present day city youths 
motoring bareheaded across the country to get 
tanned, that tide of young country blood rolling 
cityward, might have been checked. 

The art of wearing Sunday clothes was one 
that required practice and a cool head, if the 
wearer hoped to appear at ease or give the im- 
pression that it was an every day matter with 
him. Since sunburn at that time was so unstyl- 
ish, and rural folks rather looked down on them- 
selves^ a coat of tan brought self consciousness 
when dressing-up time came. 

After a man toiled all week clad only in a 
colored shirt, overalls and primitive shoes, tran- 
sition to a suit of store clothes was in some degree 
abrupt and awkward to the senses. In summer, 
that coat ! Oh my ! Words can never tell of 
the suffering it caused. Near to nature all week 
as far as clothes were concerned, it was like be- 
ing put in a Turkish bath to put on a coat in the 
good old summer time. Light weight suits for 
summer were almost unknown — in the country, 
at least. Besides it would have been extravagant 

151 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

to own two Sunday outfits at once. To adapt 
the " good " suit for hot days, was a simple pro- 
cess — just take off the coat, if you got too warm, 
and wanted to be in style. 

We of the farm enjoyed the independent priv- 
ilege of wearing our clothes until they bore all 
the earmarks of personal friends, without thought 
as to what sort of scarecrow spectacle we might 
make before the world. The world though, was 
not there to see. That was the secret of our 
boasted independence. Therefore a point never 
came in the life of a suit of clothes, when it 
was necessary to decide whether or not it was 
too shabby or out of style for further use. 

Of course there came a time to decide on its 
fitness for Sunday wear; but no sorrow came if 
the decision was a negative one. It was then 
really the beginning of a closer and more intimate 
friendship. For with infrequent opportunity to 
go on dress parade, we could not begin to feel 
true fellowship with our clothes until we took 
them for second best. And when the period of 
second best had passed — just where the slave of 

152 



OLD DAYS IN A PRAIRIE TOWN 

the city must let his suit go, to the tramp or rag- 
man — our time for ripened affection began. 

Putting them on for every day wear on the 
farm, gave a feeling of companionship like that 
with one who had been with us on a long jour- 
ney, having many ups and downs. The trousers 
and vest were woven into rag carpet, long before 
the coat was finally hung on a nail in some shed 
or storeroom, as a reserve to wear on hog-killing 
day, which required special costume. 

Though sadly worn, and disfigured almost be- 
yond recognition, it still held a general resem- 
blance to its old-time self; and the pangs of grief 
were lessened, for we yet had our old friend in 
a way — like the Egyptians with their mummies 
of the dead. 

It is no joke to say that one had to have some 
excuse for dressing up, those days. When the 
night of the big doings proved to be a rainy one, 
sadness came to many hearts. There might not 
be another chance for a week or so to wear that 
new suit or dress. Is it cause for wonder, that 
at bedtime on Sunday evening when nothing was 

153 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

on hand for the week, that some of the young 
gave a Httle sigh as they laid away their best 
clothes. For the heart of youth is the same, 
whether in city or country. 

Another impatient reader exclaims,- "This 
guy told us he would write about old days in a 
prairie town. He stayed in town about five 
minutes, and then went to the country. Is he 
ever coming back ? " 

There is a very plausible excuse for this seem- 
ingly erratic conduct. We did not get to town 
so often then. Antedating the mechanical age, 
we did not have something breaking down every 
day; thus causing a trip into the village or county 
seat for repairs. Life was simple, and we might, 
during busy times, only see " town " once a week. 
But we will go tonight — in memory — for there 
is something to "attend." 

It is now well along in the third week of the 
meeting. One of the deacons, acting as sexton, 
is lighting the kerosene lamps. The stoves have 
been showing redness for an hour. But not un- 
til after the " first bell," will the deacon turn the 

154 



OLD DAYS IN A PRAIRIE TOWN 

lamps to anywhere near a full height of flame. 
For if the service should happen to be rather 
long drawn, it would be an awkward thing to 
have the oil run low before the finish. 

There is no doubt of a full house tonight. The 
last corn husking has just been finished, and the 
strain of early rising is relieved for the winter. 
Therefore the rural population is free for what- 
ever social or public gatherings are now coming 
to hand. The roads are in fine condition, and 
a full moon adorns the prairie heavens. 

For miles around, the wagons, both lumber 
and spring, will come rattling along and before 
the second bell rings, hitching posts around the 
church lots will be crowded with teams; and an 
audience — a mingling of those in the little town 
and their country neighbors — will be ready to 
join in a preliminary series of songs, selected 
from Pentecostal Number Two. 

Down through the years tonight, comes the 
refrain of those old songs. That there were jar- 
ring notes in the chorus at times, or that main 
strength and good lungs counted for more than 

155 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

expression, will be freely admitted. But it was 
a whole-hearted performance, and its earnestness 
is unquestioned. And it was the unison of a 
neighborhood joining together in the lifting of 
voices, at a common center of public gathering 
— a thing the city knows nothing about. There 
was no one under the roof that night, who did 
not know, by sight at least, every other person 
in the building. If a stranger or two happened 
to be there, his or her identity was soon learned, 
and main characteristics noted. 

Even after confessing that the salvation of souls 
was relegated to a time of conveniene, it still re- 
mains a sort of psychical fact, that the average 
person is more susceptible to religious influences 
in cold weather than in warm. So the winter 
revival on the prairie, was in line with good 
practice, after all. 

As much as anything else, the meeting fur- 
nished social recreation to old and young. To 
the greater number of them, it also allowed op- 
portunity for getting out of every day clothes, 
and seeing each other in something else besides 

156 



OLD DAYS IN A PRAIRIE TOWN 

the sombre garb of working harness, which had 
but small variety in style. 

With two or three ol the deacons, this dress- 
ing up ended in a compromise rather abrupt to 
the eye. Never was there a less unfinished work 
of art, than a man rearing his face above the stiff 
and collarless bosom of the old-fashioned white 
shirt. Even with a collar, harmony was far from 
being complete. There must be a necktie of some 
sort to break the monotony of this white expanse. 
Those deacons were goodly men, and nothing 
but pleasant thoughts of them and their doings 
comes to mind. But that idea of being dressed 
up, when the white shirt bosom stretched un- 
trimmed and undraped from ear to ear ! 

A shudder comes, as an awful comparison in- 
trudes itself. Neighbor X had a calf lot, with 
the boards dazzlingly whitewashed. When a pic- 
ture comes to mind now, of the calves looking 
over that white fence, it is impossible to keep 
from seeing the deacons at the sam.e time, wear- 
ing their collarless white shirts. And it is not 
a fair comparison — to the calves. 

157 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

There was, however, a scale of standards by 
which the apparel could be regulated for week 
days, when attending such gatherings. It was 
hardly expected that the very best clothes would 
be worn. A man might even wear one of the 
old fashioned colored shirts to the service, if 
properly groom.ed in other respects, and conduct- 
ing himself with reserve and propriety. Had he 
appeared clad in a modern colored shirt, there 
is no doubt that he would have been arrested 
for disturbing the meeting. 

The compromises with approved costume, is 
a reminder of another; and we must leave the 
service long enough to tell of it. 

Telling time by the sun, was a practice which 
developed into an art. With the checker board 
system of farm division at section lines, the car- 
dinal points of the compass were at hand on all 
sides to assist. That is — on days when the sun 
shone. On cloudy days, the solar method was 
lame. It was general custom for a young man 
to get a watch about the same time the law al- 
lowed him to cast his first vote. Not as a re- 

158 



OLD DAYS IN A PRAIRIE TOWN 

ward for voting, but, in popular opinion of the 
time, a watch before the age of twenty-one was 
a thing which might lead the youth into worldly 
ways. It should come only with the dignity of 
mature years. " Coming of age," in these days, 
was an event of more importance to the average 
boy, than it is now, since he was not raised to 
be his own boss and tell the unfortunate parents 
where to get off at, from the day long pants were 
first draped on his form. 

But few, even of the more elderly residents in 
the country homes, carried their watches every 
day. They looked at the kitchen clock in the 
morning, again at noon, and yet again at bed- 
time. There was no whistle compelling them to 
be on time to the minute, no car to catch. They 
were absorbed in their own affair on their own 
private estates. What mattered the hour or the 
minute, so long as Sunday was not passed by 
mistake. And, as for wearing the watches — 
the act should be classed in the ornamental list. 
For as often as not, the time-piece was not wound 
up. It was simply a part of the costume when 

159 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

the owner was dressed in Sunday clothes; or rath- 
er the chain was. You remember what a show 
those chains used to make. 

Some always wound and set their watches on 
Sundays and holidays; but for just a visit to a 
neighbor's, it might be neglected as mere detail. 
If the neglect led to embarrassing results, it was 
the luck which comes from taking chances. The 
following illustrates this graphically, and should 
be a warning to the young. 

Three neighbors whom we will call. A, B, and 
C, went to take dinner with a fourth, D. They 
were slick and span — and also uncomfortable — 
in their store clothes. D's wife thought the fam- 
ily clock was not indicating properly, and this 
seemed to be a good chance to correct it. 

Remember that in those days, she could not 
call "central," and get the very latest Western 
Union time. So she stepped into the parlor 
where A, B and C, were waiting for whatever 
might happen next, and asked A, who sat near- 
est her, " What time is it ? " He replied, with 
a shade of embarrassed regret on his countenance: 

160 



OLD DAYS IN A PRAIRIE TOWN 

" My watch is not wound up." Key wind, you 
know. She then turned to B, w^hose look of 
embarrassment came ahead of her question — the 
same one put to A. He said, " My watch is 
not running either." 

She appealed to C, the last hope. He was 
resourceful, and also had an advantage over the 
others. Sitting by a south window, and know- 
ing the habits of his companions, he had antic- 
ipated their failure and taken observation of the 
sun's position. When the question came to him, 
he calmly produced his watch, gave it an uncon- 
cerned glance and replied carelessly, "Twenty 
minutes past eleven." 

Our section of the state expanded with a just 
pride, as the Burlington pushed slowly westward 
with York for its temporary terminal. When 
it finally reached Grand Island, thus making 
direct connection with the Union Pacific, there 
seemed to be small necessity for a further exten- 
sion of the " B © M." How many little commu- 
nities were developing at the same time along 
the new line, with the same hopes and ambitions, 

161 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAlvIP 

the same trials and disappointments. Speaking of 
trials, we will be specific. 

We are thinking now of the Micawbers in the 
country towns, who, with a vigilance everlasting 
and eternal, waited patiently day after day and 
year after year for something to "turn up." On 
benches or chairs in front of stores, livery stable 
or blacksmith shop, they commanded all points 
of view strategically. 

The Micawber comparison is an ill-fitting one, 
however, and an apology is due the original wor- 
thy. For in the first place, the small town men 
of leisure were not waiting for anything of pe- 
cuniary advantage to come their way. Then the 
Dickens creation is not on record as a gossip. 
After this insinuation, it might be well to come 
out in the open with the bare accusation that the 
patient watchers on the village street were there 
to catch stray bits of local scandal, and to make 
observations which would enable them to get a 
closer insight into other people's private affairs. 
The one among them who could keep the best 
informed on juicy morsels, was common law 

162 



OLD DAYS IN A PRAIRIE TOWN 

king of the vulture-like assembly. It amounted 
almost to a profession. With a head full of oth- 
er people's business or embarrassing trials, and 
an eye ever roving for more, the ruler of the gos- 
sips with those close to the throne, moved in a 
lofty disdain among others who attended humbly 
to their own business. 

There is no reason to suppose that our prairie 
town folks were more inclined to be curious than 
other people would be under the same circum- 
stances; because it is the nature of small towns 
to know more of the individual inhabitant's bus- 
iness and family affairs. But a half dozen idlers 
of the ferret-eyed type — such as existed in the 
days of the livery stable forum — can cause pain 
and annoyance to the respectable citizens, who 
would live in peace and harmony. 

To discover the source of a stream, we follow 
it — not toward the mouth, but up against the 
current to where it becomes only a tiny rivulet. 
Using the same principle, we come to the source 
of snobbery and social pretension. The end of 
our search would find us in a small village in 

163 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

most any part of the United States. It might 
not be able to boast of more than two hundred 
inhabitants but in the weekly paper will be an 
item something like the following :- 

"Mrs. X entertained a small but select party 
Friday afternoon. A dainty two course luncheon 
was served, and all report a fine time." 

"Select." There is the secret of the whole 
matter; and we did not discover it in New York 
or Boston. It proves beyond a doubt, that the 
so called democratic American begins at the ear- 
liest possible moment to put himself above the 
common herd, by the simple process of being 
"very select." 

In the little town, when the ''locals" were read, 
those who did not appear in the "select" list, 
were thus taught to know their proper places. 
And in the same town, the children had their 
methods of selection, seeming almost instinctive 
— inherited from the parents, probably. When 
they planned parties, and made up lists of those 
to be invited, some of them — not all thank good- 
ness — wished to leave out a few for the reason 

164 



OLD DAYS IN A PRAIRIE TOWN 

that they were not " good enough." Many a little 
heart, with a sob and a tear, thus learned early 
in life what it meant to be, "select." 

The neighbor who never brought it back — 
yes, he lived in our community. What he bor- 
rowed is forgotten now; but if it wasn't one thing 
it was something else, or yet another article for 
some other purpose. It might be a hayrack, or 
a post-hole digger; a harrow or the fanning mill; 
a mowing machine or the sausage grinder, horse 
collar or scoop shovel. 

Its of no mom.ent what the article was. The 
fact that a fellow always had to go after his own 
property when he wanted to use it, caused many 
a sigh of resignation. This appreciative neigh- 
bor had the drop on his victim, since there was 
no telephone. One could not call him up and 
ask for a return of the plunder. There was no 
telling what he would ask for next time, thus 
giving a chance to hide it when he was seen 
coming down the road. 

Several miles away, lived another family that 
was surely some shiftless. Its members were 

165 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAlvIP 

surely some shiftless. They were noted for bor- 
rowing capacity. Somebody gave them a runty 
pig, and a member of the household promptly 
came over to neighbor Jones, asking if they might 
borrow a pig trough. Jones was sarcastic. He 
had loaned them all that he felt disposed to spare, 
with such low percentage of returns. Calculat- 
ing it would be a shaft which would wither the 
applicant, he answered thus, — "Where did you 
borrow the pen ?" " We borrowed the pen over 
to Smith's," came the prompt and smiling reply. 
Jones wilted. There was nothing to do but hand 
over the trough. They had borrowed one of 
those small portable pens which could be slid a- 
long the grass at will, allowing brother pig fresh 
rooting territory any time he began to squeal for 
greater opportunities. 

The pig trough story ought to be genuine. It 
was told in our Nebraska town for fact, many 
years ago. Since then, it has been circulated 
here in southern Indiana, from an entirely dif- 
ferent source. With so much telling, it ought 
really to have happened somewhere. 

166 



OLD DAYS IN A PRAIRIE TOWN 

One brief chapter would barely suffice to give 
a synopsis of old days in a prairie town. Life 
there is not so simple as the funny paragraphers 
would have us believe. In boyhood days, when 
returning from the county seat, we passed thru 
the main street of our little village. It looked 
rather tame after so much excitement around the 
courthouse spuare. 

Today, these towns between the county capi- 
tals, enjoy a social life which the uninitiated can- 
not understand. Some folks insist on judging 
such places by loungers whom they see on the 
depot platform, watching the trains pass. An 
experience covering a number of years in cities, 
has convinced the writer that the " Rube" class 
is just as much in evidence there, as in humbler 
places. Expressed in a different form, but just 
as unmistakable as the rural brand. 




167 



XI 

SHEAVES OF WHEAT 

Speaking paradoxically but practically, the first 
tinge of green came twice in the life of a winter 
wheat crop; and both events were watched with 
interest, shading into anxiety. Slender tendrils 
of fall green, marked progress of root growth 
necessary to give the plant strength for the winter 
hibernation. 

A farmer's life certainly runs the full course 
of hopes and disappointments. When watching 
the wheat make the early fall start — under un- 
favorable conditions, perhaps — then again in 
spring, looking for signs of life — the tinge which 
would tell whether or not the gripping frosts and 
freezes had ended life for the little plants — the 
thought came that a game of chance was being 
played right before his eyes, and no hand of the 
law would step in to stop it. 

169 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

But if all was well so far, the faint green deep- 
ened under the April sun, and from then on 
until the shocks stood in the browning stubble, 
the evolution of the crop was a thing most truly 
wonderful and interesting. 

First, the faint green tinge deepened into a 
mat of such evenness, that it seemed like a car- 
pet of velvet. A week or two more, and the 
winds could chop the surface with little wavelets 
like those on a pond of very shallow water. 

Rapidly it mounted, a heavy dark mass, spark- 
ling in the morning with heavy beads of dew. 
Then the heading time — an unfolding like that 
of the butterfly from the chrysalis. When the 
newly headed field lay swelling in the breeze 
with gentle undulations like a harbor sea, inde- 
scribable shades of color dissolved over it in the 
days which followed. 

Under changing lights of the June skies, came 
everything possible in the line of green. How 
carefully the waving mass was studied to detect 
the first sign of yellow — the beginning of the 
harvest ripening. Just when the ripening began, 

170 



SHEAVES OF WHEAT 

and what stage the process was in after it did 
begin, was always a problem to figure out. For 
these skies of June days, also played pranks with 
tints of yellow now mingling in the green. 

Viewed from the proper angJe in bright sun- 
light, ripening seemed to be advancing rapidly; 
and the farmer frantically prepared for the cutting 
which appeared to be only a few days away. 
But if a cloudy and rainy day came just then, he 
scratched his head while pondering as to where 
that ripened look had gone. 

With ripening of the heads, came endless 
shelling out in the hand of plump ones, to make 
estimate of the yield. How many bushels were 
wasted in that way each year, would be hard to 
determine. It was one of the most natural im- 
pulses in human nature. 

As the crop neared maturity, study of the heav- 
ens was not neglected. Whether it be on the blue 
expanse of ocean, or the miles of green prairie, 
this becomes an instinctive habit. We studied 
the sky as did the sailor, because it was practic- 
ally our master. Its showers and its storms, made 

171 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

our wealth and our poverty. Since the sheep 
passes as an example of weakness and defense- 
lessness in the animal kingdorr, a field of ripen- 
ed wheat might be similarly compared in the 
vegetable world. 

When the yellowing heads shone in the after- 
noon sun, the blue of the sky harmonized per- 
fectly along the horizon and high above it. But 
when the horizon began to darken, the increas- 
ing contrast brought an instinctive note of warn- 
ing to the farmer, who had watched evolution 
of the crop thru the months. 

As the darkening strip mounted higher, and a 
wicked looking line of clouds forms low in the 
distance, all figuring as to probable yield was 
laid aside. A flash of lightning, and a distant 
roll of thunder. A dulling of the sun, as the 
edge of the deep blue-gray spreads. 

In this softened light, the ripened wheat stands 
with startling contrast against the solid blue- 
black mass below that yellow-tinged line of clouds 
heading the storm. With the death-like stillness 
which comes just before the swirling clouds get 

172 



SHEAVES OF WHEAT 

their blasts into play, thought came that the help- 
less field of grain was like the lamb awaiting the 
pleasure of the lion. 

But why dwell on calamity and desolation. 
Let us say, that for this time, the storm proved 
to be only a bluster. And the sunset, that night, 
gave to the unharm.ed wheat fields a glow of col- 
or passing all description. Far in the southeast 
where the afternoon s unpleasantness had disap- 
peared, was heaped a pile of fleecy white clouds. 
Fro2Ti the high eminence of a barn roof, the fields 
and pastures were fair to see. 

The wheat, ready for the binder, when the 
morning sun takes away the heavy dew. The 
deep green of the corn, over which stray tassels 
were already shooting up here and there. The 
broad pools of water lying in the basins, and 
shining like silver in the twilight. The air — 
was home-made mountain ozone. 

As the twilight deepened, the fleecy cloud- 
balls were yet visible, and reflected in a faint 
glow the highlights of the sunset. Often they 
would flare up with soft light like fire-flies. This 

173 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

proved there was lightening below them, but 
no sound came. It w^as so silent in their direc- 
tion, that it was easy to i'xagine them a part of 
another world, or a picture painted on the dis- 
tant sky. With the feeling of relief at escape 
from the storm, and the comfort of the shower 
in the way of fresh, cool air, there was peace 
in the farmer's heart that night. Tomorrow 
would begin the harvest. The crickets had come 
to be among those present, and their chirping 
lulled the weary to rest. Troubles faded away, 
as the distant evening clouds of the storm had 
faded into the darkness. 

So dawned the morning of the first day of the 
cutting. To get a start, was to be half done. 
There was once a farmer who prayed for a wet 
harvest time; and they put him in the lunatic 
asylum. It was a plain case. There was noth- 
ing else to do. All who have served apprentice- 
ship in the fields, will understand. 

But with all eagerness to get into the swing 
of it, and put the crop out of harm's way, few 
there are who can truthfully say that they fairly 

174 



SHEAVES OF WHEAT 

itched to follow the binder, and take the job of 
shocking as it came, better or worse. 

There were many tiz^es on the farm, when 
one realized that a reserve of endurance like that 
of the prize fighter, was necessary to keep a fel- 
low on his pins from morning till noon, or noon 
till night. But in the wilting heat of a harvest 
afternoon, as he looks en the long rows of bun- 
dles ahead, waiting for the shccker, this realiza- 
tion is vividly clear and strong. 

Surely here is where bread is earned by sweat 
of the brow. With sweat, comes thirst. He 
who has never shocked, might as well pass these 
lines by. Appreciation can com.e only from 
experience in this case. 

At the end of the field a quarter of a mile away, 
is a choice morsel — a large jug of water wrapped 
in a wet burlap sack, and stowed in a shock se- 
cure from the sun s blistering rays. Possibly 
thirst was aggravated by the sight of the rows 
of bundles that must be set up in shocks before 
the jug is reached. What an endless task it 
seems, and how the sweat does run into the eyes, 

175 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

leaving the mind in no condition to while away 
the time by bringing up idle memories, or dreams 
for the future. The tired body keeps all the 
senses alert to its own needs. But shock by shock, 
the goal is approached, until only a half dozen 
remain ahead. 

" Now why," the one who never shocked may 
exclaim, "didn t you go on and get a drink, and 
then come back to finish ? " 

Beloved but ignorant one, "listen," as these 
natives of the Ohio valley say so charmingly. In 
dire cases of thirst, this was done as you suggest. 
But it was a matter of pride, a time-worn custom, 
an unwritten law of the fields, or a combination 
of all these, which spurred one to the task and 
compelled going just so far between drinks. 

When, with palpitating heart, labored breath- 
ing and trembling hands, there came the thought 
of how a great pleasure can com.e from a simple 
thing, when it is really needed. And that bliss- 
ful five minutes rest in the shade of a shock — 
words cannot describe it. If all of life could be 
a rest like that— ! ! ! ! 

176 



SHEAVES OF WHEAT 

And once there was a particularly trying after- 
noon. The bundles were green and very heavy, 
while the binder had bv?en "missing," to an ag- 
gravating extent. The sky was clear, and the 
sun was at his best. Far beyond the western 
horizon, a long line of low-lying clouds, indistinct 
and hazy, made a startling illusion of mountain 
peaks. So perfect was it, that it seemed hard to 
believe it a cloud picture only. 

There was the dark saw-tcoth line against the 
sky, with the haze of many miles to soften and 
allure with its silence and mystery. It looked for 
all the world like that first glimipse a hundred 
miles east of Denver, where thousands watch for 
their first sight of the Rockies. 

But that afternoon in the wheat field, when 
no cloud came to shield from the sun s glare, the 
phantom range in the west aided by the harvest 
thirst, brought visions of cool, shaded canons, 
pine-scented and restful for all the cares of life. 
And the clear, cold stream that came boiling 
over its stony bed; the little spring which sent 
just enough cold water down the broad face of 

. 177 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

a granite wall, to keep it moist, and dark in col- 
or. All the details came in that picture, until — 
why, this is the last shock, and the jug is at hand, 
to soothe, rest and restore. 

Stacking time proved once again, that in union 
there is strength. For with each little stacker 
working faithfully in his own field, the entire 
prairie landscape was quickly dotted with many 
picturesque "settings." 

At the stackyard, signs of three crops told of 
a continuous performance in the raising of wheat. 
The old straw piles of last year's crop — the new 
stacks just built, and the plowing for the sowing 
soon to come. 

In September days, the shelled grains around 
the stacks had grown into a mat. Here, in the 
shade, with the scent of new straw and ripening 
corn — well, what's the use. It is a poet's job, 
therefore we pass. 



178 




"As the twilight deepened, the fleecy 
cloud'balls were yet visible, and reflected 
in a faint glow the fading highlights of 
the sunset." 



-page 173 



XII 

WINDY DAYS AND CALM 

In the memory of those who knew the prairie 
of Nebraska and Kansas, the most unforgetable 
recollections relate to the wind. With an unob- 
structed sweep over the level stretches, it held 
high carnival. There was no choice of seasons; 
any old time would do. The windy periods 
might vary from year to year, but there was no 
month which could not muster fully matured, 
bellowing blasts, lasting from one day to a week, 
holding like the magnetic needle to one point of 
the compass with almost unvarying velocity day 
and night, and hot or cold according to the sea- 
son at hand. 

But in all of it there was nothing which could 
be catalogued or scheduled, beyond the fact that 
the south wind was ordinarily a summer variety, 
and the north wind thrived best in winter. It 
was all so erratic, that, had ships sailed our 

179 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LA^IP 

prairie seas, the sailing dates would have been 
very irregular. We had a few signs, however, 
that were looked to more or less with the bitter 
knowledge gained by experience, that all signs 
might fail in dry weather, as they did elsewhere. 
Thus, if after several successive days of lusty, 
warm south wind in spring or summer, we did 
not see a darkening of the sky in the north and 
west as the breeze began to die down, we knew 
one of our best signs of rain had failed. If the 
wind swung to the west before it began to wane, 
there was little hope. If it veered to the south- 
east or on beyond, it was no tim.e to cut hay. 
After a deathly calm of a day or two, we knew^ 
it would make up for lost tim.e. 

In summer, when drouth threatened, there 
was no pleasure in noting the gradual rising of a 
south wind as the day advanced. In winter, 
nobody pined for north wind, unless it was the 
coal dealer. We had no iceman to worry about 
the hot days. It was a land of extremes, and 
the winds were responsible for a full share of it, 
including changefulness of the skies. 

180 



WINDY DAYS AND CALM 

And calm days? Well, rather. That dead 
stillness of August, when the rush of shock 
threshing was on. Not a leaf of tree or corn 
stirred. Smoke columns rising straight up here 
and there, showed where "crews" were clearing 
the fields. The golden piles of straw, loomed 
like mountains in miniature. The hum of the 
threshing machine came faintly. 

Windmills with wide open wheels dotted the 
landscape, ready for any fitful breeze of the mo- 
ment, to add a little water in the depleted tanks 
where the cattle stood fighting flies. And those 
engines were thirsty things — coughing and pant- 
ing as they strove to keep up the speed of the 
separators, eating the sheaves of wheat. What 
a task it was to keep them supplied with water 
during a "still spell," and how they did toot for 
the water wagon ! 

Far over toward the horizon, a windmill wheel 
begins to turn briskly. We knew a breeze was 
coming. Those wheels were our sentries, for 
when unobstructed by trees, they gave the rela- 
tive velocity of the fitful winds. 

181 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

That terrible contrast of the seasons. Again the 
dead cahn on the prairie. But now, it is that of 
a cold and clear winter night. A foot of snow 
lies over fields and pastures. The new moon, 
now nearly down to the horizon, gives enough 
light to show buildings and trees as dark spots 
against the white, for long distances. The small 
groups of trees, seem so outclassed in the broad 
nocturnal view of snow. It is a safe bet that they 
are at the north and west of the houses close by, 
for a "windbreak," in time of storm. 

There is no fury tonight, unless it be called a 
fury of biting frost. The stillness is Arctic like. 
If it lasts until the sun can glaze the snow with 
a slight crust, something very disagreeable may 
be averted. A high wind just now would carry 
the dry snow in blinding clouds, drifting it many 
feet deep, and leaving whole acres bare. In 
the homes scattered far apart over the prairie, 
kerosene lamps are sending out their gleams. 
Those spending the evening by the fire inside, 
are apprehensive. They could rest easier tonight 
if they knew tomorrow's sun would shine un- 

182 



WINDY DAYS AND CALM 

clouded, and pack the fluffy crystals. A touch 
of "January thaw,'' would be welcome. 

Since this is a free country, all who wish may 
sound praises to the beautiful snow. But an ex- 
tended observation proves that the ones who 
shout the loudest, "See the beautiful snow !", 
are recruited from a class that has but small oc- 
casion to get out in it. In a land where no howl- 
ing winds come to whirl and drift, one might 
look with more leniency on these gushing ones. 
But on this prairie, where the strong winds are 
adapted equally well to either hot or cold air — 
[joke,] admirers of cold and clamm-y snow ought 
to be carefully watched by the sanity board, for 
symptoms of a violent stage. 

A foot of this flaky white substance, lying 
unpacked and dry, ready to fly into clouds when 
driven by the north wind, is a very dangerous 
and disagreeable thing. If anyone thinks of snow 
on the western ranges as only a thing of beauty, 
he must be heedless of the misery and suffering 
it causes to the helpless live stock, unprotected 
from storm, or the poor of the human race, who 

183 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

are almost as helpless as the cattle and sheep at 
times. Let us compromise by calling snow a 
necessary evil, bringing moisture and protection 
to soil and wheat. Let admiration for this Arctic 
substance, be centered on the snow-capped peaks 
— symbols of uninhabitable places. 

Extending across the snow-covered prairie from 
horizon to horizon, on a grade but little above 
the level of the fields, lines of steel rails reach 
for miles without a curve. Although no breath 
of air seem.s to stir, a musical hum comes from 
the line of wires on telegraph poles along the 
right of way. Drawn tight by contraction of 
cold, the varied tones are often clearest on nights 
like this. Over the landscape lying under the 
segment of moon, are other lines of poles extend- 
ing in various directions, and their wires are 
also on the hum. 

Who can properly tell, of what telephones 
have meant, in those silent lands where neigh- 
bors are few and far between. The low hum of 
the wires leading into the house, is a comforting 
note to those around isolated firesides in winter, 

184 



WINDY DAYS AND CALM 

being a constant and comforting reminder of the 
close touch they now have with friends miles 
away thru the gripping cold. 

But the humming of these telegraph wires ! 
Sometimes it can be about the most mournful 
note on earth. Did you ever wait at a country 
railroad station, for an overdue train ? That 
little stereotyped waiting room — counterpart of 
a hundred more on the line — with a clock, which, 
if it moved at all, seemed to go backward. You 
read odds and ends, and studied maps on the 
wall; but the senses are never normal in a wait- 
ing room, so you finally entertained yourself by 
twirling your thumbs. 

The telegraph wires came thru the wall above 
the operators table, and an almost constant chat- 
ter was clicked off by the sounders. Occasionally 
there would be a sudden silence of the instru- 
ments, and loud humming of the wires, empha- 
sized by the stillness inside, made a note more 
mournful than pen can describe. For you was 
far from home, and had no friends in the small 
town. The semi-musical note, as it rose and 

185 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

fell with the wind outside, brought up semi- 
pleasant thoughts and refletions. You were much 
interested in the reports which came over the 
humming wires, telling of the progress of the be- 
lated train. When at last the whistle came drift- 
ing down the line, the eagerness with which you 
gathered up your baggage was almost childlike. 
Your happy, smiling face, beaming from the car 
window as the train pulled out, was an inspira- 
tion to the inspection committee of the village, 
on duty along the depot wall. 

Breezes, more or less boisterous, cam.e and 
went, the seasons thru. This chapter would not 
be fitting to its title, did it not move in erratic 
gusts of words, after the manner of windy days 
and calm. 

A soft breeze makes audible the voices of grow- 
ing things, in and around the fields. Strong 
winds confuse and drown them in roaring blasts. 
The gentle murmur of prairie grass on an autumn 
day — have you forgotten it, old neighbor of many 
years ago? The rustle of corn leaves, varying 
according to the stage of growth. 

186 



WINDY DAYS AND CALM 

In the long ago, when cur new prairie homes 
stood with so little to shade and shelter them, the 
sound of wind whistling thru bare branches of 
young cottonwoods, gave some measure of satis- 
faction. It told of protection frcmi storm when 
they grew larger. In spring, when the buds be- 
gan to swell, a slightly different tone cam^e from 
the branches; and som^e fine day, when a stiff 
breeze was blowing from the south, there was a 
deep muffled tone. The leaves were open, shin- 
ing 'with a glittering tenderness. 

Soon they were ready for the strenuous life 
the summer winds would bring them, and to 
take dry and wet days as they cam^e. There 
would be times of deadly stillness, broken sud- 
denly by the rush of blinding rainstorm from the 
northwest, when the branches would bend low, 
and sometimes break under the strain. Perhaps 
there would be many days of hot south wind, 
compelling the corn leaves to curl up tightly to 
escape the heat. 

It was then that shade of the rows of cotton- 
woods, was appreciated by man and beast. To a 

187 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

stranger riding thru the region, with no practi- 
cal knowledge of what is seen from the window 
of a Pullman, that which is said here might ap- 
pear to be a trivial matter. But those who have 
lived there — know. The prairies had their 
beauty, like the open sea; but a sailor, no m.atter 
how much he may love the water, yet longs for 
a harbor to protect him from storm or break the 
monotony of a long voyage. For similar reasons, 
we longed for "timber." 

Tonight, the kerosene lamp brings up little in 
the way of hint for a continuation of windy days 
and calm. Tired by the day's duties, the easy 
chair seems to be the most paying investment 
yet made, as far as dividend in solid comfort is 
concerned. Recollections, hazy and indistinct, 
without order or sequence, come and go. The 
senses, both physical and mental, are off duty. 
Even the melody of boat whistles, drifting over 
the Ohio, creates no interest. 

Thru an open window, a subtle something 
calls the sense of smell back on the job. It proves 
to be smoke from bonfires of the early spring 

188 



WINDY DAYS AND CALM 

yard rakings. The burning leaves and other 
cast off vegetation of last year, combined with 
the odor of swelling buds — what a combination 
to awaken the memory. 

All boyhood likes a bonfire, and it is possible 
that early prairie day boys would work harder 
in spring yard-cleaning time than usual, to get 
the award of bonfire privileges. Since there 
were no clearings of timber to make, and little 
waste of any kind to burn outside the stove, bon- 
fires were listed in the recreation column. 

During the first few years, however, tim^es 
came when boys suddenly lost interest in trash 
burning. Volumes of smoke arose in a long line 
beyond the horizon, toward which lay an almost 
uninterrupted area of native wild grass. There 
was excitement in all the households. If the wind 
should become stronger, there would be grave 
danger. This conflagration might leap all the 
"fire-breaks," and narrow roads. The afternoon 
wore away. After sunset, the approaching smoke 
columns glowed with reflected light of the flames 
yet out of sight. But soon the horizon line lay 

189 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

dark and distinct against an everbrightening 
space above. All hearts sank as tongues of flame 
shot up all along the line. It was not a time to 
go to bed and court sweet dreams. 

But, just as it happens in all "thrillers," the 
wind fell; and the flames dropped to a simmering 
ribbon which died out as it burned to the dusty 
track of road extending for miles across the path 
of the fire. With a good wind, crossing that 
frail barrier would have been but the work of 
a moment. 

As the last of the line of flame reached the 
road, illumination of the sky faded away; and a 
darkness which meant happiness to many house- 
holds, settled over the plain. For this year, at 
least, danger of prairie fire is over. 

How strange it was to go out over that black- 
ened land next day. The perspective of every- 
thing was changed. It was like a desert of sand, 
with dead, sooty hue as far as the eye could 
reach. What few objects had been there to defy 
combustion, stood out with startling distinctness. 
Yonder the whitened skeleton of a horse, looked 

190 



WINDY DAYS AND CALM 

ghostly and uncanny. Little groups of eggs show- 
ed where birds of the prairie had nested to poor 
advantage. 

Wind and rain soon wore off the blackness. 
If strong breezes came before the rain, what sooty 
clouds they drove against us ! Then came the 
pleasure of watching the green of new prairie 
grass begin to tinge the dark, making times of 
fire danger seem far away. 

Since the sins of hum^an beings frequently re- 
ceive more renown than their good qualities, — 
especially when heralded by the prejudiced press 
of eastern states — so the good name of Nebraska 
and Kansas has been discounted by undue prom- 
inence being given to the winds. This tuber- 
culosis ridden Ohio valley, might envy those 
two prairie states their freedom from such an 
affliction, giving sunshine and wind, credit for 
a good share of it. 

" Just to go home. " Someone wrote a poem 
with that title, telling why it was worth all the 
cares and trials of the business day, just to gain 
the great pleasure of going home at night with a 

191 



UNDER THE ICEROSENE LAMP 

new appreciation of its quiet comfort. Whoever 
watches the supper-hour crowds of a city, will 
agree that the poem's sentiment must be more 
or less true to life. 

There was a parallel case out on those windy 
prairies. Trials and cares of a boisterous day, 
faded with the coming of blissful peace at its 
close. We could say that over our land was an 
aerial orchestra. When it crashed and boomed 
with windy discords, the theme was leading to 
a calm; that we might appreciate its beautiful 
harmony by contrast. 




192 



XIII 
ALONG THE FENCE LINES 

In Owen Wister's delightful story of the west, 
The Virginian,- where that realistic and grue- 
some chapter describes a horse thief hanging, 
it is related that they were strung up in a clump 
of cottonwoods; these being the only trees for 
miles around which were suitable for the purpose 
of the expedition. 

Not a word here which might put a ghostly 
halo around this variety of tree; but we wanted 
to remark that it would have been almost the 
only thing available for a lynching on Nebraska 
prairie also. Our pioneers found that life in the 
land of their earlier years, where timber must 
be cleared from the soil before a home could be 
made, and living in that new land where trees 
must be planted and grown before the place 
would seem like a home, became another matter 
which must be solved. 

193 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

Those who had cleared out brush and trees in 
states further east, appreciated the clear, open 
acres, which saved them an axeman's toil. But 
especially during the winters, when the bleak 
raw prairie of dead brown had so little to break 
monotony of the view on all sides, longing came 
for some of those old home trees. And when 
the blizzards raged, thoughts of years in homes 
where timber broke the force of winter storms, 
caused sighs of regret. 

Other sighs came for the firewood old home 
trees had furnished. When it came to using 
cornstalks for fuel, which really did happen in 
some instance, visions of woodpiles with chip 
trimmings, came all unbidden. These reasons, 
together with provisions of the timber claim law, 
combined to give the cottonwood a boom. Soon 
young groves around the buildings, along lines 
between farms and bordering the roads, were 
making more or less of a showing. 

Some old photographs, made to send back to 
"the folks at home," give all aid memory needs 
to tell of them. How pitiably straggling those 

194 



ALONG THE FENCE LINES 

thin rows appear, emphasizing nswness of the 
land. The migrating artists made no attempt 
at pictorial effect. They can hardly be blamed 
for such shortcomings, as other requirements of 
the picture kept the photographer shrouded in 
grim responsibility. 

The view must show all the farm buildings, 
assembled live stock, machinery, hay and grain 
stacks, and last but not least, all members of the 
household including the hired help. It might 
with propriety, be called a wholesale photograph. 
As these were made on week days, all the folks, 
including the horses, generally appeared in their 
working harness. 

The care taken to promote growth of young 
cottonwoods, made them seem like som^ething 
more than mere vegetable organisms. For sim- 
plicity, the planting was all that could be desired. 
Sticking down a row of "cuttings," was about as 
easy as planting lead pencils to get a row of shade 
trees. Boxalders were their running mates, and 
cedars from the Platte were set out for ornamen- 
tation of the yards. 

195 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

"Along the fence lines." What a big job it 
would be to follow them all, thru even a small 
territory. Take one county alone, such as our 
own York, with section lines crossing at every 
mile. Then add those on half mile divisions 
between quarters, and a portion of the individual 
farm fields. 

Suppose a row of trees stood on every line — 
but too many of the present generation would be 
shocked at such a suggestion. They have lost 
the tree-loving dispositions of the homesteaders, 
and are content with wire fence. 

"Trees on the fence lines and along highways ? 
rU say not ! They sap the ground awfully." 

Just now, it does not appear worth while to 
argue that they make up in other ways for the 
sapping of a strip of ground, leaving wind pro- 
tection and value of wood in the resource column. 
Government reports back up this statement. The 
sentiment is, "Cut down the trees along roads 
and between farms. Get the last row of corn 
up as close as possible to the fence. Farm every 
foot available. Taxes are high." 

196 



ALONG THE FENCE LINES 

You cannot argue with such people. What 
they need is a missionary to induce change of 
heart, and give a new outlook on life. So let us 
discuss the fence lines in other ways. 

Some years ago, an aspiring literary critic took 
William Dean Howells to task, for the simplicity 
of his very popular stories. This wiseacre dubbed 
them ''Fence corners of life," and said the world 
must not be satisfied with such crude things in 
its literature. 

The position of Mr. Fiowells in American 
Letters, has been too well established to suffer 
much from carpers of that calibre. We will at 
least assume, that a few remain, who might be 
interested in some simple things of the fence 
lines and secluded corners. 

Do you remember summer days after heavy 
rain, when it was too wet for work in the fields; 
therefore you took a hammer and went along the 
fences, to put in staples where cattle and horses 
had pulled wires loose in strenuous endeavor to 
get a few bites on the forbidden side. Is there 
not something in the memory of such a day, to 

197 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

give pleasure in thought of fence lines ? In those 
places, the morning glory and wild rose secured a 
foothold. The rose flourished best on edges of 
the draw where the fence dipped down the in- 
cline. Was there ever a sweeter scent than it 
gave the pure, clear air over the rain-drenched 
earth. Wild lilies were at home along the bottom, 
in the bed of silt deposited by the washing of 
spring rains. 

The Cottonwood row, gradually increased in 
height as it descended the draw, thus showing 
its true nature as a low ground tree. The tops 
made almost a straight line, like that of a railroad 
grade crossing a similar depression. 

Sometimes, when following the plow up and 
down the corn rows, monotony settled like a pall 
over the scene. This made one more likely to 
observe small details in the way of stray flowers 
and other things along the fence to give the mind 
something to feed upon, while the team "blowed." 
If only there was a market for the host of idle 
thoughts and fancies, which pass thru the mind 
during hours in the field. They may truthfully 

198 



ALONG THE FENCE LINES 

be called day dreams, and the argument that the 
farmer has opportunity for self culture, appears 
to be plausible. 

With an obedient, well trained team, and a 
Nebraska soil free from rocks or stumps, it did 
not require much mental effort to follow the 
plow. Alone from sun to sun, and no one near 
with whom to talk, or anything exciting to wit- 
ness, it was only natural to lock at the morning 
glory, inhale the perf um^e of wild roses, or even 
study spider webs and anthills. 

During the long week, when duties were irk- 
some to the prairie boys, the vista of the creek 
valley a couple of miles away, had an alluring 
charm. Possibly the week was a windy one, mak- 
ing again for monotony in the round of field work. 
Just then, a Saturday afternoon holiday meant a 
good deal. With a few simple leaded lines and 
hooks, and a nickel's worth of lean beef from the 
local butcher shop, hope and contentment all 
centered on chances of enticing the catfish from 
cool retreats in shaded spots along Lincoln creek. 
For unadulterated excitemicnt, it was not equal 

199 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

to the annual trip to the Blue, but was more fre- 
quently attained, and had interesting features of 
its own for boys. 

To follow the winding creek, from the bridge 
over it at one section line to that at the next one, 
was a source of enjoyment. The same stream 
always, but in new shapes under changing lights 
and shades at every turn. Now thru a stretch 
of pasture, all in the open and bright sunlight. 
Then under the trees which came down close to 
the water's edge, with probably a high bank 
close on one side. Here, all was so quiet, that 
it was the place to stop and listen to calls of birds 
up or down stream, and the tinkle of a cowbell. 
We didn't use bells in the pastures on higher 
ground away from the creek, for our cows hadn't 
a chance on earth to hide. 

One can feel a personal acquaintance with a 
creek — can know all the little things about it, 
necessary to give a feeling of friendship. Some- 
one has said, "A river is too distant, too much 
of an institution, and too little an individual." It 
has a powerful facination, but is too far beyond 
200 



ALONG THE FENCE LINES 

anything human, to have a common tie where- 
with to meet in playful mood. 

Along these small prairie streams, the boys 
cast calculating and artistic eye; to "compose" 
landscapes for the camera. Here they learned 
by disappointment in results, that all which is 
glittering green, does not come out as gold in a 
photograph. They came to realize that a cool, 
shady dell, is not a place for amateurs to produce 
their masterpiecees. 

It was here also, they learned that after the 
leaves had fallen, was the time to study a phase 
of beauty in trees, which could not be had when 
leaf masses hid trunk and branches. A tree is 
picturesque at any stage of its life, and even of 
decay down to rotting logs-— a thing no animal 
life can be. The artist is glad when he can so 
arrange that a dead tree will come into the fore- 
ground of his picture, but the bones or skeleton 
of some dead animal would be carefully rem.oved 
from a similar location. Who does not like to 
loaf around a woodpile, and who would care to 
dally with a pile of bones? 

201 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAIVTP 

Those who follow fence lines of the farm and 
range, observe many things concerning animal 
life in the silent places. In watching cattle and 
sheep in the pasture or on a range, there is al- 
ways interest in the study of their movements 
and doings, when left entirely to their own de- 
vices. Feeding with heads all turned one way, 
then without a command or signal, in five min- 
utes the entire herd may be moving in the oppo- 
site direction; grazing as peacefully as ever, and 
without a mouthful of grass being lost. 

Early in the morning, when they lie close to- 
gether in the corral, or on some favorite spot 
near the feeding ground, there is yet more inter- 
est in watching them rise at leisure and move 
out along the paths for a day's feeding. Why is 
it that they seem to m^ake a direct line for some 
spot today, and tomorrow head straight for an- 
other ? Their mental processes are beyond the 
understanding of man. 

Then to watch the paths develop on a new 
range. First, scattering lines of tracks, all lead- 
ing in a general direction. Next, the paths of 
202 



ALONG THE FENCE LINES 

least resistance seem to be figured out in some 
way, and certain routes begin to deepen and be- 
come the thoroughfares, which even human 
stragglers can follow with assurance. 

In spite of the fact that these herds are merely 
so much meat on the hoof, coolly calculated in 
dollars and cents, silence of the pastures the day 
after shipping, strikes a note hard to define in 
detail. After watching for several months the 
varied antics of a flock of spring lambs, care free, 
and with apparently a well developed sense of 
humor, vigorously expressed— who dees not feel 
just a little pang of sadness when he views the 
deserted playgrounds. All will be a brooding 
stillness until spring comes again, and another 
bunch is turned out to indulge in a constant suc- 
cession of field day sports. 

No very extended reverie about days along the 
fence lines, could get far without something com- 
ing in concerning the horse. Whoever, in early 
years, has spent days and weeks and months 
with them as sole companions, could not forget 
his faithful friends. 

203 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

In the multitude of western stories of recent 
years, it has been a point with their authors to 
make clear the hero's kindness to his horse; and 
often the villain is loaded with it also. The idea 
is a good one. 

When a horse falls on a crowded street, men 
step out to help him up or give advice, who 
would never be suspicioned of knowing anything 
but bank stocks and big business. Their early 
farm training, and a heart they might not be 
credited with having, all unite in making them 
useful to the truck driver. 

The faithful horse and his reward — no — "Be 
good and you will be happy," does not always 
reach into his life. Listen, kind lady, while we 
tell of a mistreated horse. 

It was a cloudy and dreary day in November, 
with a chilling mist settling over the fields. The 
last vestige of green, is gone from the closely 
cropped prairie pastures. Until the long winter 
and early spring months have passed, horses and 
cattle must be content on dry feed. Did you 
ever notice in the spring, when new green had 

204 



ALONG THE FENCE LINES 

begun to show in spots over the pasture, an old 
horse who had gotten thru the winter in sorry 
shape, now picking around trying to get a Uttle 
of the tender grass, which would be a veritable 
elixir of life to his toil-worn body. 

On this dreary, late fall day, a request had 
come to take an animal of such description, out 
of a pasture and kill him. He was twenty-five 
years old, and had passed a hard life of abuse 
and overwork at the hands of unappreciative 
masters. There was no record of their number, 
but it is safe to say that many had left their mark 
in unmistakable characters. 

The instruments for the operation — a halter 
and a rifle, were secured. At the pasture gate, 
he came ambling up, shaking as with ague from 
the chilly mist. But when the halter was placed 
on his head, he gave a low whinny of joy; for 
his idea seemed to be that a warm., dry place 
was at hand, possibly with some tender hay 
and soaked corn that his shattered teeth could 
chew. Yes, old horse; you was right. It was 
the mission that day, to make you comfortable, by 

205 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

doing the very best thing for you under the cir- 
cumstances. It was not exactly what you were 
expecting, but stern reality dictated. And the 
command was carried out — not in the spirit of 
merely getting a worthless carcass out of the way, 
but with full respect for the years of useful toil 
you had faithfully given to man. 

He followed willingly, and as coltishly as his 
infirmities would allow. We reached an unfre- 
quented spot a half mile away. The afternoon 
was dark and dreary enough to fit mxst any kind 
of a crime. 

There was no reproaching conscience. It was 
thru no fault of the executioner, that the victim 
showed so plainly the effect of years of overwork 
and rough treatment. There were bumps and 
knobs all over him, accumulated in the various 
ways toil gives them to a horse. On his shoul- 
ders were white patches of hair, telling of raw 
flesh under the collar, making him wince as he 
went the endless rounds in the furrows of the 
fields under the hot sun, with torturing flies to 
fight at every step. 

206 



ALONG THE FENCE LINES 

Standing there in that silent and secluded spot, 
wornout, discarded, but with the power yet left 
to suffer physically — a thing which nature gives 
all her creatures until the last — there was some- 
thing in the injustice of it all, which made him 
seem a representative of countless wronged ani- 
mals mutely appealing their woes. 

It was not the fact that he was to be shot, 
which made for any appearance of injustice. The 
mawkish sentiment which lays disapproval on 
putting aged animals out of the way, counts for 
nothing of benefit to the victim. 

Let us pass details of the execution, leaving 
that for our enterprising newspapers when the 
next bandit is hung or electrocuted. Even if it 
had been an old horse who had been the family 
pet for a lifetime, and whose coat had always been 
slick and shiny, it is not supposed that the mem- 
bers of the household would enjoy taking a day 
off to go out and have a picnic in honor of kill- 
ing old Charlie; or quarrel over the privilege of 
firing the fatal shot. Years of experience with 
horses, does not leave one with a high opinion 

207 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP. 

as to their general range ol intelligence. But no 
one needs to be told of their sensitiveness in the 
things of physical makeup, which cause suffer- 
ing from heat and cold, hunger and thirst — the 
four things which also make the problem of ex- 
istance for the human race. 

When, tired by a day's labor in the field, man 
and horse start homeward together, man for the 
time being is little more than a tired animal seek- 
ing rest. If he be in any degree conscientious, 
his own aching muscles bring a sense of compas- 
sion for the tired horses who have toiled all day 
with him. The man who will neglect a tired 
team after a day's work, will bear watching; for 
he has a crooked streak somewhere. 




208 



XIV 

SILENT TRAILS 

There is one silent trail which has not suffer- 
ed decay or ruin since its desertion by man, and 
that is the Ohio river. Practically, it is an un- 
used waterway. While coal "fleets" yet carry 
large cargces, the total volume of traffic as com- 
pared with days long past, is so small that the 
few boats seen now only emphasize desertion of 
the great stream. What the future will be when 
the new series of dams now under construction, 
gets into action and maintains a barge stage dur- 
ing periods of low water, is not under discussion 
in this chapter. 

To watch the Ohio during a cycle of seasons — 
how many different stream.s it appears to be un- 
der varying lights and shades of spring, summer, 
autumn and winter. Under the bright sky of a 
June day, with those beautiful green hills fading 
into hazy distance, it is not the same stream one 

209 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

sees under a full moon the following night. Then, 
the hills are but outlines in black against the sky, 
with shining stars above; and the stream, with 
movement of the current nearly hidden by the 
soft light, seems more like a long lake between 
mountain ranges. 

And at sundown, to watch the gradual trans- 
formation from the river of day to that dream of 
the June night. While the sky is yet full of soft 
twilight, the Ohio is at its prettiest. Free from 
all reflecting glare of the sun, every little break 
on the surface is brought out by delicately color- 
ed hues from the western horizon, or evening 
clouds above. The ruffled patches of shallow 
water over the sandbars; the w^hirling eddies 
and arrow-pointed wakes at sterns of motor boats, 
or the boiling line churned up by steamers — all 
stand out in sharp relief, tinted by the sky with 
a softness no artist could equal. 

As the twilight deepens, and movements of 

the current become indistinct, it gives the effect 

of the stream coming to rest for the night like a 

thing of life — a life resistful and unyielding to 

210 




"It is but a small strain on the imagination 
to put rr.ules back on the towpath." 



-page 



212 



SILENT TRAILS 

any efforts of man to control it. There is a fac- 
ination for many people in watching the current, 
increased no doubt, by knowledge of its great 
volume. Although classed among silent trails, 
as far as real importance in navigation is con- 
cerned at present, it is yet the grand old river of 
other days, ready for whatever the future may 
hold in store for it. 

Thru Indiana and Ohio, the old canals which 
once connected lake Erie with the big river, still 
furrow the valleys and wind along bases of the 
hills. In some places, just a scar shows where 
commerce of the new states passed back and forth. 
In other places, the old ditch lies just as it did 
when water was last shut off at the reservoirs. 
Between Dayton and Cincinnati, the sleepy cur- 
rent yet drifts along; and the towpath does duty 
as a road for foot passengers and bicycles. 

A stroll along a section of this old canal, pass- 
ing here and there rotting locks and spillways, 
a sunken barge or other relic of those times, takes 
one back a little from the rush and roar of trol- 
ley cars and speeding trains. It is but a small 

211 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

strain on the imagination to put mules on the 
towpath; especially as the canal still has friends, 
who keep trying to revive its days of usefulness. 
It is an odd situation — this argument between 
those who believe that the old ditch should be 
filled up, and those who argue for its enlarge- 
ment to carry today's traffic. 

In our first days on the Nebraska plain, while 
yet the prairie lay unbroken, there were deserted 
thoroughfares, impressive in their significance. 
Deeply rutted by rains and weathering, routes 
of the hardy ones who had passed by wagon years 
before to the Rockies or beyond, showed sharply 
in relief against the short grass to the horizon. In 
the silence of these old trails, thought of the slow 
and tedious grind, day after day, with unavoid- 
able privation and suffering, always gave the old 
highways a touch of the weird. Now, the West, 
in appreciative remembrance, is marking the line 
with inscribed granite, and beginning to take 
pride in its history. 

Farther west, are deserted trails of another 
sort; telling graphically of man s struggle to estab- 

212 



SILENT TRAILS 

lish paths for bands of steel in the mountain 
wilderness. In Colorado, Utah and Nevada, 
are many miles of abandoned roadbed with ties 
still in place, or their imprint showing plainly if 
removed. Here and there old piling where a 
bridge stood, with some cf the old timbers in 
decay thereon. At curves along the mountain 
side, whistling posts with traces of white paint 
yet remaining. And of all things ! — a sign faintly 
legible— "Lock Out For The Cars." 

Strolling along one of these old grades, or thru 
a "cut" high up on the forested slope, gives the 
imagination a full diet to digest. While many 
miles of this phantom railroad have been replac- 
ed by lines located from better surveys, many 
other miles are in decay because their usefulness 
is over. In some of the old mining towns, a de- 
serted depot with the trackless roadbed leading 
from it out thru the canon, brings thoughts of 
endless dramas, in which such thrilling titles as 
"The Rise and Fall of a Mining Town," might 
keep a dozen film companies busy, if all of its 
history could be told. 

213 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

What a romance could have been handed down 
from the grading and construction camps of those 
pioneer lines. Rough men, a rough life, and a 
rough, hard task. With every crudely marked 
grave on the hillsides along the way, how much 
interesting history may be buried. 

When one reared in a land of trees, grass and 
running streams, stands alone for the first time 
in a stretch of western desert country, with no 
sound from any point reaching the ear, and real- 
izes that he is the only living thing within the 
circle of silence, his feeling is intense, but not 
to be described in words. If a little sage brush 
happens to be in sight, it only intensifies the 
feeling of being the whole thing. 

Thru the window of a Pulhnan, the average 
tourist idly watches lonely stretches in Arizona 
and New Mexico. Even such soil as that varies 
in worth. In the last stage of fertility, comes 
the herder and his sheep; his tent a white spot 
out in the sage brush and catcus, with his flock 
scattered around it. The herder, standing like 
a statue, watches the train go by. 

214 



SILENT TRAILS 

"Arizona Nights," indeed ! If this shepherd 
of the desert had Hterary talent, what tales he 
might tell of the stillness, which the coyote's 
yelp only intensifies and deepens, Out there, 
if you have a job which would drive a white 
man insane — get a Mexican. Long days and 
weeks and months in the midst of such uncanny 
vegetation, with scatterings of a little which the 
sheep will eat, is no calling for any man who 
knows there is an inhabited world. 

We had a loneliness in early prairie days, but 
it was not of the desert brand. Some, though, 
goaded by homesickness, were known to have 
called York county a second Sahara. But they 
stayed just the same, and in due time, joined the 
Booster Club. 

Once more the long line of snow covered peaks, 
shows in sharp relief above the purple-black foot- 
hills, while the Burlington train is yet a couple 
of hours out of Denver. The sun, although not 
above ths eastern horizon as seen from a car win- 
dow, is bathing the old sentinels with a soft 
glow. The snow line, half way down their sides 

215 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

for a hundred miles or more, ends so evenly and 
abruptly that it looks much like a carefully ap- 
plied coat of paint. 

Reaching the city, the view down Sixteenth 
street toward the range, shows a section of moun- 
tain white looking much like a circus tent placed 
across the street a number of blocks away. A 
few creased and dark lines strengthen the illusion. 
But as the sun mounts higher, its strong light 
clears the air and all deception ends. Far from 
the turmoil, that clear cut line of the peaks be- 
yond the foothills, lies stately with the silence of 
ages; giving emphasis to noise of the street, and 
unspeakable dignity to the heights beyond. 

The sixty or seventy years of man's struggle for 
mastery in the region, is only a moment in the 
geological life of The Continental Divide. The 
snowy summits, high in the pure, clear air, are 
independent of man s coming and going, or any 
of his erratic doings. 

During the afternoon of the same day, at an 
hour when the street is crowded with shoppers 
and vehicles, a team of oxen advertising a dairy 
216 



SILENT TRAILS 

concern, is driven at their customary leisurely 
gait down the thoroughfare, thereby attracting 
much attention. 

In a flash, sight of the slow-moving pair brings 
back the memory of a journey made about forty- 
four years ago. From York to the Platte, our 
route then followed the valley of this shallow, 
sandy, island-dotted stream., to this same Denver. 
Hardly the same, if physical makeup only is con- 
sidered. But in the eyes of a very small boy see- 
ing street cars, [horse drawn,] for the first time, 
it looked larger than at present. 

An ox team furnished miotive power for the 
pioneer day trip also. True, horses had been 
invented some years before, and were used, al- 
most exclusively for such overland journsys. But 
for some experimental reason or other, the time- 
honored ox was selected. Saying the least, it 
was a bitter piece of irony to christen the expedi- 
tion a pleasure trip. In the fifties, some had 
even crossed to California by persistently prod- 
ding the patient ox. What they called their 
trips, might not be fit to print. 

217 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

At the time of this ox-power jaunt to the 
mountains, the Platte valley and adjacent coun- 
try surely had some silent trails. When the re- 
gion of scant rainfall in eastern Colorado was 
slowly and tediously being traversed, to a very 
youthful mind in the party, it seemed a dead 
certainty that the end of the earth was being 
approached. 

Once, a day's journey showed no sign of hu- 
man habitation. Nothing but endless monotony 
of the plain, broken occasionally by low bluffs, 
or a dry creek with clumps of cotton woods and 
brush at irregular intervals. The glare of the 
sun put a ghostly weirdness into the scene, and 
helped to make it appear as part of an unfinished 
world. A solitary ranch house with low out 
buildings and high corrals, only intensified the 
general depressing effect. 

To the small boy, all this was an impressive 
thing, but he had a fever of impatience burning 
within. Since the beginning of the journey, the 
thought that he was actually to see mountains 
with snow on them in summer, had almost put 
218 



SILENT TRAILS 

him in a state of unaccountability for his actions. 
At times when dark storm clouds loomed at sun- 
set, and the wagon was chained down to prevent 
its being shoved into the river by terrific wind 
which came with the thunder and lightning and 
blinding sheets of rain, his little bed back home 
would have been a welcome spot. 

And when the ox-drawn wagon was put in 
with a dozen or so horse-drawn ones, traveling 
together in socialistic state for protection against 
bands of marauding Indians who happened to be 
causing trouble just then, and when companies 
of soldiers in the old army blue were met, the 
youngster was pop-eyed with fear lest there were 
not enough soldiers to exterminate the redskins. 
How on earth could anyone call that a pleasure 
excursion honest and true? 

At last came a morning when a dark, undulat- 
ing line with some sharp points, lay on the west- 
ern horizon. The highest places in the line had 
white clouds hiding part of them. No ! — they 
then told the boy that the mountain range was 
in sight at last, and snow was hiding the tops of 

219 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

the peaks. When he asked if the wagons would 
reach them by dinner time, he wondered why 
everybody laughed so hard. Told that it would 
be three days or more at the rate the party was 
traveling, before they would be reached, he re- 
signed himself as best might be to the slow pace 
the caravan seemed bound to adopt; little realiz- 
ing that the range was seventy-five miles or 
more away. 

At camping time that night, the prospect was 
discouraging. The peaks did not show as plainly 
as they did in the morning. All the next day, 
there was nothing in sight on the horizon except 
the usual scattering of lonesom^e and forlorn low, 
sandy hills. Even the third morning and fore- 
noon revealed nothing. But in the afternoon, a 
distant bank of thick, cloud-like haze was thin- 
ning; and outlines of the peaks, now looming in 
a way which almost scared the boy, gradually 
grew stronger in the clearing sky. 

That night, when camp was made just out- 
side of Denver, the sun sank behind a majestic 
mass, fringed with cloud and color. The long, 

220 



SILENT TRAILS 

tedious days behind the ox team, the Indian and 
the storms were all forgotten in wild anticipation 
of mountain days to come. It now began to look 
more like a pleasure excursion. 

Going over the same route today in an auto- 
mobile instead of behind an ox team, it is evident 
that this trail has not become a silent one after 
so many years. And what is mere, there is no 
chance for the old highway to get a nap in the 
future.. Nebraska people are never going to tire 
of a spin to Colorado's parks, with a roadful of 
transient cars with which to dispute the way. A 
trip behind an ox team, and one behind a motor 
that never tired — what a contrast. 

Eagerness of the prairie boy to see snow in 
summer, is equalled every day on the Denver- 
bound trains, by grown-up folks from eastern 
states, who have never before seen the barrier 
which brings such an abrupt ending to the great 
stretch of plain. 

Who does not like to follow a trail, whether 
it be only a simple path thru the grass, a road 
winding along a stream, or one leading far into 

221 



UNDER THE KEROSENE LAMP 

the hills. All memories of past life lead along 
silent trails. The farther back, the more dim 
the trail becomes. 

After a long and toilsome climb up a mountain 
pass, one pauses to look at the road yet in view 
far below, over which he toiled willingly in the 
morning sun, with a new interest at every turn 
of the way. 

There may be chilly winds at the summit, but 
in the valley ahead at the trail's end, can be seen 
silver lakes and ribbons of streams; made more 
alluring by knowledge of their delectable camp- 
ing places in the stillness of sheltered nooks. By 
the campfire, looking back at the looming mass 
over which lies the trail, memory brings pictures 
of the road beyond the pass — route of the morn- 
ing climb. The expectancy, or anticipation and 
interest in what would be seen during the day, 
all combine to carry camp reflections back to the 
start at dawn. 

There comes a time in middle life, when days 
of youth are yet fresh in mind like those of the 
climb over the mountain pass. But with a few 
222 



SILENT TRAILS 

years more of distance added, taking the traveler 
farther down into the valley of later life where 
he hopes to find a peaceful camping place, he 
begins to lose details concerning his state of mind 
when all of life's winding road lay ahead. 

Days when the Bluestem waved gracefully 
above the shorter prairie grass, come back to 
those who knew Nebraska when section lines 
were disregarded, and the trail-like road went 
across at any angle convenient for the shortest 
route to the hopeful county seats. There was 
no climb over the pass to make. No difficulty 
other than a few mud holes where the way had 
been led thru a basin. 

Today, our excellent highways, strictly con- 
ventional and true to lines of the checker-board 
survey, make more for a comparison to exagger- 
ated city blocks than anything else. Old roads 
of our prairie days are gone. For a view of them 
we must go back in memory to the great realm 
of silent trails. 



NO ROAD 
223 



